


The Space Between the Balconies

by spinyfruit



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe - Human, Depression, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, Freeform, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Panic Attacks, Slow Build, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-03-16 05:44:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3476660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinyfruit/pseuds/spinyfruit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a space between the balconies, where glances are stolen, smoke flies, and dreams wander. Lovino draws the blinds, and Antonio opens his windows. They see each other sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Luglio_

 

Someone stole the sun.

 

_Agosto_

 

Someone burned the flowers.

 

_Settembre_

 

Someone threw black ink across the sky.

 

_Ottobre_

 

Everything was different. Everything changed.

 

_Novembre_

 

The world plunged into darkness at a crossroad somewhere in Prati. There was a white Fiat and a blue BMW, and then there was nothing. Ten seconds at that crossroad ravaged Lovino's life.

There were no more roses, gardenias, tulips, or daisies. Laughter evaporated into the air. The stall fell to pieces. There was nothing left in Campo de Fiori.

 

_Dicembre_

 

Nothing was left at all.

 

_Gennaio_

 

He

Was

All

Alone.

 

* * *

 

"There's someone new moving in today."

Lovino exhaled a breath of fresh smoke and gazed up and down the flights of stacked apartments. The fog dulled their yellow-orange colors. "I know," he replied blandly.

Ludwig glanced at him, his eyes dark and tired. He looked at Lovino with silent empathy. "What are you doing these days?"

"The same," Lovino said, "just more." He dragged his cigarette long and slow; his hands held it delicately, and his fingers were slightly shaking.

Ludwig turned away from the smoke. He pressed his lips together and finished the last drops of his beer. "I understand," he murmured.

It took a few moments, but Lovino conceded and acknowledged Ludwig with a curt nod.

He then stomped on the butt of his cigarette and lit a new one. Ludwig opened another beer.

 

* * *

 

_"Ve~ Lovi!"_

_Lovino wiped sweat from his brow and glared at his brother. "What?" he demanded, as he finished stacking a crate of flowers atop another. They were fresh sunflowers from somewhere in Veneto._

_Feliciano smiled wide, and his eyes flinted honey-brown in the sunlight. "You know that pizzeria in Trestevere? Ludwig invited me to go with him. Isn't that exciting?"_

_Lovino rolled his eyes and began fluffing the flowers out. "Not really. It'll be boring with someone like him."_

_Feliciano nudged Lovino's shoulder as he laughed along. "Don't say that about Luddy," Feli ordered playfully. "He's such a sweetheart. I think you two could really get along if you let yourselves."_

_Lovino rolled his eyes, and began posting prices near the flowerbeds; he tried to ignore the fastidious pangs of his heart._

_Feliciano hummed a familiar but unplaceable tune for a few minutes, and then hopped by Lovino's side once again. His gentle touch was on Lovino's arm, and his smile beamed once again. "How about we go to our café for parfaits this afternoon?"_

_Gelato, biscotti, e panna. Lovino would always get Coppa Tiramisu and Feli would get a new one each time. Usually something fruity._

_An unwilling, but charming smile betrayed Lovino's features. He tried to hide under the shade of the tent. "It's your turn to pay," he said, but there was no harshness in his voice._

_Feliciano giggled and tackled his brother in a hug from behind._

_It was too hot for hugs in the middle of a Roman July, but the fact never stopped them._

_The warmth of the sun, the color of the flowers, the music of the crowds…_

_"Rome really suits you, you know?" Feli blurted on the walk to their café._

_Lovino slowed his pace to concentrate on lighting his cigarette. One he caught a spark and inhaled the nicotine he glared at his brother. "What are you talking about?"_

_Feli grinned in that mysterious, faraway manner of his. "I was thinking today about how much Rome suits you. I can't see you living anywhere else. You really have the city's personality."_

_"Places don't have personalities."_

_"Yes, they do!"_

_Lovino pursed his lips, and continued smoking. The light was red when they crossed the street and the cars stopped for them._

_"The way you walk so self-assured. The way you dress, and the way you smoke and drink…it's that unapologetic personality. An innate sense of self. I think all Italians have it, but Romans have it in the same way you do. A little bit…"_

_"Crass?" Lovino offered sarcastically. His eyes drifted to some half-assed graffiti painted on a nearby wall. "Dirty?"_

_"…A little bit jaded, I think."_

_Lovino's eyebrows puckered. "Not the word I would've chosen."_

_Feliciano giggled. "Well, you've never been the type to see yourself clearly. I don't think you'll ever be able to actually."_

_"That sounds like an insult somehow," Lovino grumbled. He threw his cigarette to the ground, stomped on it, and kept walking._

_Feliciano's eyes still sparkled with that distant intensity. He was always watching something faraway; Lovino was afraid to think that Feli might have been able to see the future. "You know how Romans are so desensitized to the greatness of their city? I think you're desensitized to the greatness of yourself."_

_A red and fierce blush colored Lovino's cheeks. He scrambled for a fast and annoyed response. "Jesus Christ, Feli. I help run a stand for flowers, I'm not jumping into burning buildings and saving babies."_

_Feliciano didn't laugh that time—Lovino remembered that. He always thought that was odd._

_Instead of laughing, Feliciano gave him that eerie and silent smile: it was a reminder of his demure intelligence Lovino so often forgot about._

That moment lasted an eternity and ended in the blink of an eye.

Lovino's eyes drifted away from his reverie when he noticed his cigarette was about finished. He tiredly crushed it against the side of the wall and let it fall to the floor. He didn't know whether to fish out another one or not.

In spare minutes of indecision he noticed the sun was setting. Shadows caught the ancient and intricate carvings of the architecture: the buildings came alive.

And usually around this time the streets and sidewalks were fairly tranquil. Only one or two passersby per fifteen minutes. There'd already been three in the past ten, so Lovino was surprised when he heard an orchestra of sounds echoing from the left side of the sidewalk.

Curiously and somewhat reluctantly, Lovino turned his head: he watched a young man of about thirty years of age roll down the sidewalk, two suitcases and an oversized backpack in tow. It was quite a sight.

The man appeared fairly balanced with the luggage – which itself was quite a marvel – and instead seemed preoccupied with the numbers of the buildings. He stopped at once, turned in the other direction and paused at the corner, before retracing his steps towards Lovino once again.

God, what a tourist.

Lovino fidgeted with the cigarettes in his pocket just as he mentally debated the ethical options. There was a soft Italian voice in his head that told him to talk to the curly-haired man. It was the same Italian voice Lovino had been trying to ignore for months now, still to no avail.

He sighed, let go of his box of his cigarettes, and walked to the man.

Lovino knew only two languages – Italian and English – but he didn't know which one to pin on this guy. He didn't look like he belonged to either really, but setting his shabby clothes aside, there was definitely something Mediterranean about him.

…Perhaps English would be best just in case.

"Hello," Lovino announced awkwardly. He coughed a little; there was still smoke in his lungs.

The man turned away from the building, and his bright green eyes darted to Lovino. He flashed a wide and brilliant smile. "Oh,  _ciao!"_  he said, and took long and fast steps closer. They were standing face to face, when the man continued, "Um,  _dónd—dove es—um…e_ …" he trailed off into a laugh.

Lovino sighed. So he was Spanish. "What do you need?" he asked tiredly.

"Oh, you speak English?" the man exclaimed, his accent trilling over the words a bit too fast. After Lovino nodded, he said, "Great! Ah, I'm looking for building number twenty-six. Do you know where that is?"

Lovino started walking and gestured over his shoulder for the man to follow. They didn't need to walk more than ten steps to arrive at a large and old wooden door. There were names and buttons to the side.

"This is it?" the man asked, already laughing again. "Ay, I guess I walked right by it and didn't know. These signs are a bit confusing, no?"

Lovino didn't reply, and instead hunted for his box of cigarettes to pull one out. "Are you with the Bielschmidts?"

The man appeared a bit taken aback, but smiled anyway. " _Si_ , I am. Do you know them?"

Lovino shrugged his shoulders dismissively. "They're in apartment number eleven," he said instead and pressed the button next to the speaker. "It's on the fourth floor. There's an elevator."

"Really?"

Lovino lit his cigarette.

"Hm, well that's nice. I didn't think Rome would have many—"

 _"Pronto?"_  the speaker said.

The Spaniard jumped to action and pressed the button to reply. " _Hola—er, ciao! Est—Io…sono Antonio. Su—il tuo nuev—nuovo—"_

"Oh, for the love of—just shut the hell up. We're not Italian either idiot. Just speak English."

Antonio chuckled, and responded with a bit more confidence. "Sorry, sorry. I saw the name was German, but I didn't know what else to say."

"Eh, it's whatever. We get that a lot. Do you want me to buzz you in?"

" _Si_ , that'd be great!"

The door unlocked and Lovino made the move to hold it open for Antonio. He held the doorknob with one hand and his cigarette with the other. Antonio snuck by him, lugging his two oversized suitcases and backpack behind. They shared an awkward glance. Lovino wanted nothing more than to hide away in his room and get a glass of wine; and for the first time in the past five minutes, he sensed that Antonio might've felt the same way. The green eyes were deterring. Lovino hadn't caught the guarded sheen and tense smile that came with them. Antonio didn't want to talk to Lovino at all.

But apparently, he was polite.

"Thank you," Antonio said shortly.

Lovino's eyes flicked to him and away in a second. " _Niente_ ," he mumbled, and he let the doorknob fall from his grasp. The wooden door fell shut, and locked with a strong boom.

Like the gates that guarded people's hearts.

…

_"Lovi?"_

_The voice echoed in the still of the night. Lovino wasn't asleep, he was staring at the ceiling fan. "Yeah?" he replied eventually._

_"How many people do you love?"_

_Lovino laughed lightly. It was always after three glasses of wine that Feliciano started waxing poetic. And it was after five that Lovino began to play along. "Not many," he said._

_Feli hummed. "How many?"_

_Lovino was quiet and thought. He pondered the question very deeply. "I," he began, "I…three people."_

_"Mm," Feliciano acknowledged vaguely. "Tell me who they are."_

_Lovino shook his head and wished his smile would go away. It was the wine. It was the Roman summer heat and the wine for sure. Being around Feliciano didn't help either. He started his list after a breath laugh, "Mama, of course. Nonno Roma. And…you."_

_Feliciano burst into a fit of giggles. He was lying on the other side of Lovino's bed, but swiftly rolled over and wrapped his brother in an affectionate hug. "No, Lovi. You're too cute! I can't take it. Just stop! Sei troppo carino. Troppo. Troppisimo."_

_Lovino was laughing too. "I am not, damn it. You always say that, and what have I told you? You don't know a thing. I'm the one who's always right."_

_"Ve~ you're so silly. That's not true at all," Feliciano teased, and he slowly regained his breath. The laughter stilled to a pleasant tipsy aura. Emotions danced around the room, and the truth lingered on their tongues, ready to slip out._

_"Lovi," Feliciano whispered, "why do you love so few people?"_

_Lovino's eyes followed the fan; he forced himself not to feel the burn. "I don't trust many people," he replied. The words digested for a moment. "Honestly, I…I don't think I can ever trust anyone more than you."_

_Contrary to the usual, Feliciano's hands loosened. "That's not true," he said fervently. "You know it's not."_

_Lovino didn't say anything. He was torn between nodding off and starting a riling debate about the new German boyfriend._

_And during that silence, the fan still turned. It worked hard to blow away the melancholy that settled in the room. Instead, it revealed some sensitivity that had been dusted over._

_"Lovino…"_

_"Yeah?"_

_"Mama and nonno are gone."_

_Lovino sighed his reply, "I know."_

_Feliciano's forehead laid against Lovino's arm. "You can love many people. You know that."_

_Lovino's breath was shakier. He didn't trust himself to speak._

_"Lovi," Feli murmured. He spoke in his softest Italian. "I know, you know I know… your heart."_

That song.

_Tears already bubbled at the corners of Lovino's eyes, but he knew how he was supposed to reply._

_"…I know you know, I've seen you know…my heart."_

 

* * *

 

"Hey there! You must be Toni then."

Antonio was a bit surprised when his suitcases were suddenly swept away from him by a tall and blonde German fellow. The other even fairer one was already giving him a nickname.

" _Si_ , I am," Antonio replied a bit late. He smiled at the brisk affection.

The man extended his hand. "You don't mind if I call you Toni, do you? Antonio seemed like a bit of a mouthful."

_"For god's sake Toni, we need to go. Toni? Toni, really. Toni."_

_"Toni! Toni darling, dinner's ready. What are you doing over there? Toni, come on, we need to go the store. Toni! Toni. Toni? Toni…"_

"It's perfectly fine," Antonio smiled, and shook hands.

The man – the one with the red eyes – laughed and gripped Antonio's hand tight. "That's awesome! My name's Gilbert, and that was my brother Ludwig who just stole your bags."

Ludwig was strolling back into the room, and he frowned at his brother.

"It's nice to meet you," Antonio said to both of them. "Have you guys lived in Rome for very long?"

Gilbert pursed his lips. "We've lived here for about two years now. Not that long. We moved here for work—we're both in the car industry."

"Oh, really? That's so cool!" Antonio exclaimed. He snuck glances into the small, clean kitchen and narrow hallway. Though it wasn't fancy, everything was in perfect order.

Ludwig replied first this time, saying, "I'm afraid it's hardly as interesting as it sounds. Really, we just—"

"Yeah, it's pretty cool," Gilbert interrupted brashly. "We work on engineering for Ferrari, so you could say we're basically professional race car drivers."

"You could, but that would be a blatant lie," Ludwig commented dryly.

Antonio laughed, and carefully set his heavy backpack to the floor. He rubbed his shoulders, and let his eyes wander the walls again.

"So what brings you to Rome?" Gilbert asked. "Work? Family?... _amore_?" he said the last word with poor Italian drama.

Antonio smiled anyway. "None of the above," he replied. "I guess I just felt like it."

Ludwig's eyes observed him rather carefully. "Really? Do you not know anyone here? Anyone at all?"

A pleasant lightness tickled Antonio's chest when he said the words, "Nope. Not a soul."

_I'm finally in a place I don't belong._

_I'm finally alone._

 

* * *

 

"So Ludwig sleeps in that room. I sleep over there." Gilbert was giving Antonio a tour of the apartment, and pointing to each room as he went along. It wasn't a large apartment, but it managed to fit a lot.

They arrived at the last room down the hall, and Gilbert opened the door.

"And this is your room," he said, and gestured for Antonio to go inside. "It's about the same size as mine, so don't worry. Damn Ludwig snagged the biggest one."

Antonio walked inside and found his suitcases already leaning against the side of a bed of average size. The walls of the room were plain and white; a few basic décor paintings hung here and there. It was perfectly standard.

"I know, I know," Gilbert drawled, as he sped ahead of Antonio. "It's pretty small. But look—it has a balcony! Mine does too. It comes in handy. I don't know whether you smoke or not, but it's also useful for laundry. Ludwig has to use a drying rack indoors."

Antonio followed him outside the glass doors and onto the balcony.

"It's no view of a park or some shit, but it's still a pretty decent view," Gilbert said, and his hand gestured to the apartment building across from them, and to their right and left. Apartment buildings surrounded a small garden shared by all of them: it was meager and Italian. The buildings were simple too, but undeniably charming.

Several of the balconies had clothes strung out to dry, others had small chairs and tables; some had flowers and plants.

Antonio's eyes slid up and down and back and forth the buildings; he tried to take in the view. It wasn't beautiful, but there was something aesthetically appealing in the grittiness and reality of it all. He liked it. He liked seeing the old men holding glasses of wine and walking around the garden. He liked seeing the middle-aged woman bring in her dried laundry. He liked seeing children excitedly blowing bubbles. He liked watching all of it. But somehow, Antonio's eyes got stuck on one particular balcony, belonging to the apartment right across from him.

"It's nice, huh? You can do some pretty neat people watching. It's weirdly addicting. Nothing's really private around here."

The balcony was bare. There were no flowers or laundry. It was just the railing, and the table, and two chairs. Only one of them was occupied though: it was the man from earlier. The Italian in the long, black coat.

He was smoking a cigarette, alternating between holding it delicately in his fingers and lulling it between his lips. His legs were crossed, his pose was relaxed…he was staring at the space in front of him. Nothing was there.

Gilbert caught Antonio's line of sight. "Do you know Lovino?" he asked, his voice suddenly very curious.

Antonio laughed lightly and shrugged off the suggestion. "No, not really. He helped me find the apartment. That's all."

"Ah, I see," was all Gilbert replied. There was an awkward pause as his eyes travelled to Lovino and back again. "He's, uh…Lovino's a… _friend_  of Ludwig's."

"Uh-huh." Antonio nodded courteously, though he didn't really care. He didn't want to hear any of it.

Gilbert was still frowning in the direction of Lovino's apartment; Antonio's boredom didn't register with him. He continued, saying, "Listen, would you let me know if there are any…" Gilbert pressed his lips together. "Well, just let me know if anything comes up, all right?" A smirk was back on his face, and he gave Antonio a light pat on the shoulder before walking back into the room. Gilbert said they were making dinner at eight, and Antonio should get settled in beforehand. The door closed behind him.

Antonio remained on the balcony.

He crossed his arms over the railing and gazed at the apartment across from him. Lovino was still sitting there. He held a match in his hand and lit a new cigarette. Antonio didn't miss the slight shudder of relief when Lovino inhaled the first breath. He didn't miss how the knots in Lovino's body undid themselves with every drag. He didn't miss how Lovino's eyes drew further and further away.

Antonio didn't want to know him. He didn't want to know him at all.

But he couldn't help but stare across the drift, at the space between the balconies. Antonio inhaled the smoke that blew his way, and slowly the stress in his back undid itself too.

 

* * *

 

"It's raining today."

"No shit."

Ludwig frowned. "I was just trying to make conversation," he muttered, and his gaze shifted down the street briefly. He looked at Lovino again. "Are you sure you don't want my umbrella?"

Lovino had his hood pulled over his hair, but raindrops still glistened fresh against his cheeks. He glared at Ludwig. "Does it look like I need a fucking umbrella?"

Ludwig groaned in mild frustration and turned away. He was trying to keep in contact with Lovino. He tried every single day. But why did Lovino have to make it so hard?

He took a few deep breaths and concentrated on the hum of the rain, the echo in the street, the reflections of the cars in the wet pavement. There was something missing. A phantom limb.

Suddenly, Ludwig said, "Feliciano never minded the rain either." His voice was wistful. He hadn't even realized he'd said it.

And the calm shattered.

Lovino left, like a flash of lightning.

Ludwig gazed after him, and for a moment, he thought he saw someone about the same height, about the same build, and just a little bit fairer skipping beside him.

Ludwig let himself believe it for a little bit longer.

 

* * *

 

_"I wish the world were made of flowers."_

 

* * *

 

Lovino did much of the same thing nowadays. It didn't change much. The content never changed, though the order and amount sometimes did.

He slept…sometimes. He drank café macchiato, espresso, and cappuccinos much more.

He smoked cigarettes every hour.

He worked late, and he worked a lot. His job was at a bar in Trastevere. It was the young and exciting neighborhood where all the up-and-coming lived. But he only worked there at night, and it was a different world then.

…there was no light anymore.

This was it.

 

* * *

 

_"Instead of grass, there would be daisies. Just daisies._

_"Instead of cement, there would be buttercups._

_"Instead of trees, there would be sunflowers."_

 

* * *

 

Lovino hated his apartment. He refused to decorate it. He refused to do anything at all to it. The inside was all white walls, plain floors, and blank space. He was fine with it that way; he was never the one to change things.

The only thing that made the apartment worthwhile was the balcony. It was all he truly needed.

The balcony was a small step to another world. It was a piece of the sky Lovino was allowed to sit on. He was safe, he was alone, and he could smoke. Sometimes he drank too.

Usually, that's all it was. Lovino would light a cigarette, smoke, and repeat. He didn't do anything else. He didn't want to do anything else. He couldn't do anything else.

His mind was paralyzed in a way he didn't know how to fix.

But his eyes could still move. And though he wouldn't bat an eyelash for a house fire or a domestic fight, lately Lovino had been distracted by the balcony across from him. The one where the odd Spaniard named Antonio lived.

 

* * *

 

 _"_ _Everyone would walk around barefoot, everything would be fresh and soft."_

 

* * *

 

Antonio didn't do much…that's what Lovino noticed after a while.

Since Lovino worked for most of the night, his mornings were usually free. Antonio was almost always there on the balcony, despite the winter chill.

He alternated between standing up and sitting down, it was never the same in that way. And when Antonio was out there, he looked at Lovino rather often. Neither of them did anything but stare into space, so their gazes were fated to coincide.

But that was it.

Lovino would hold his fifteenth cigarette of the day between the shaking fingers of a body that buzzed with too much caffeine, and he'd let his red-tinged eyes tiredly and unabashedly wander the planes of Antonio's face. And Antonio let him, because Antonio did the same.

There was something inexplicably soothing about Antonio. Sometimes there were people you just liked to look at. Lovino concluded that Antonio was one of those people.

Perhaps it was because he was enigmatic. Lovino had his clouds of smoke, but Antonio had a glass shield over his eyes. They were as dark and mysterious as emeralds. They always were. And they regarded Lovino in a way that didn't quite make sense.

Lovino liked to trace the faraway lines of Antonio's face: his nose, his eyebrows, his eyes and eyelashes. Antonio had a beautiful mouth too; Lovino knew that upon first introduction. It was quick as a whip to smile, but Lovino quite liked it when it was relaxed too. Antonio's lips were naturally tilted upwards, but when he wasn't paying attention, there was a melancholic weight that lingered there. Lovino imaged they were secrets, conversations, screams, cries, and just words that weren't allowed to break free. Lovino imagined that Antonio had quite a lot to say.

But they didn't say any of it to each other. They just stared.

And Antonio would rest his chin in his hand as Lovino pulled the cigarette away from his lips.

 

* * *

 

 _"_ _If the world were made of flowers, it would be a much gentler place."_

_"…You're fucking weird, Feli."_

 

* * *

 

Rain and rain again. It rained a lot in Rome.

Antonio was casually tuning his guitar on the balcony. He had his shoes perched on the wire table, and the guitar resting in his lap. His fingers flew instinctively across the strings and the tuning keys, as his eyes wandered wistfully to the closed glass doors of the balcony across from him.

The blinds of the windows beside it were drawn. Antonio spotted Lovino near the counter of his kitchen. There was an espresso brewer in front of him.

Antonio hummed and strummed a few random keys.

Then there was a knock on the door, and suddenly, Gilbert was on the balcony too.

"Hey there Toni," he called, and freely took a seat in the chair beside him.

Antonio winced slightly at the nickname, and he halted in his strumming. Then he smiled. "Hey, how's it going?"

Gilbert chuckled as he loosened his tie. He and Ludwig were always wearing suits. "Eh, you know. Same old, same old. It's still too damn cold around here."

"Yeah, it's a lot colder than Spain."

Gilbert nodded his head, while his eyes flicked to the guitar. "Do you play?"

Antonio shrugged. "I used to. I thought I might try to pick it up again."

"Were you a musician or something?"

Antonio's laugh came out a little breathless. "Maybe. Kind of. A long time ago I might've been something like that," he answered vaguely, still smiling.

"Somehow that sounds like a very Spanish thing," Gilbert commented, and he was relaxing further into the chair. A few moments of breaths, Italian echoes, and car engines went by. Gilbert asked, "So what were you thinking of doing for work around here?"

Antonio sighed a little before placing the guitar on the floor. "I've never really had a consistent job. I've just done a variety of odd jobs here and there. I guess I'll have to pick something up soon." He didn't say it with much conviction, but in his heart, Antonio knew he had to.

It's not as though he was lazy, or that he didn't want to work. But Antonio's idea of how to live – the way he wanted to live – is different than what most people want. Jobs are just jobs to him. He doesn't care what he gets. As long as it's physical, worthwhile, and pays decently, that's fine with him. A job is literally a means to an end. There is so much more to life than work.

But looking into Gilbert's strong and flashing red eyes, Antonio wasn't quite sure he would understand that.

"I can help you look for one if you like. I have connections here and there," Gilbert offered casually.

Antonio smiled at the gesture. "Thank you. I'll let you know."

"No problem," Gilbert replied, and he slouched further into the chair. There was a gentle breeze that mussed his hair.

After a few too many quiet moments, Antonio picked up his guitar, and began strumming it. Gilbert was alternating glances between his phone and something in the distance, and the simple chords of music painted the ambience in pensive hues.

"I was thinking about getting a job in construction," Antonio said suddenly, his fingers still moving gracefully.

Gilbert was staring into space when he replied, "Well, there's plenty of that around here. Do you like physical work?"

"I do. It feels pure, or wholesome to me…it's hard to explain."

"No, I think I get it."

"It'd also be good for my language. I understand most Italian so that shouldn't be a problem," Antonio continued thoughtfully, and his gaze slowly trailed back to the balcony across from them. He saw Lovino standing near the stove, but something was different. He was holding a glass cup, and he was holding it very tightly. Then in an instant, Lovino was alive again. It took less than three seconds for him to hurl the glass across the room: shattering the quiet along with the glass.

It was loud enough to echo into the space between the balconies. Gilbert was fast to check it out; he jumped to his feet and leaned over the railing to get a better look. Antonio's body moved much slower. His senses were already dulled; his emotions had been conquered and taken away. The gates were so tall, so large and so many, it took ages for anything to reach his heart.

But eventually, he managed a redundant, "What was that?" Antonio was well aware of what it was, but he wasn't so sure Gilbert was.

In fact, Gilbert was studying Lovino's apartment with so much intensity, a mild curiosity pulsed in Antonio's veins. Perhaps there was more to it…

"Lovino broke something," Gilbert commented dryly. His hands were gripping the railing tightly; the skin over his knuckles was taught and white.

Antonio watched the window, and he watched the slow, deadpanned scene of Lovino leaning over the counter, head in his hands. He was moving slightly, ever so slightly: it was just a quake in his shoulders. He might've been crying.

Antonio thought he should say something. "Do you think he's okay?"

Gilbert's lips were pressed tight together. "Yeah…" he murmured reluctantly. "As okay as he can be I guess." Gilbert slowly undid his grip of the railing, and backed into the chair. "It was probably an accident," he added a little later. By the glare of his eye and the fold of his arms, it looked as though it was taking a lot of willpower not to scream.

Antonio nodded silently to the lie. He stayed near the railing until Lovino left the counter. Then he also returned to his chair. He didn't pick up his guitar though. The sound of breaking glass kept trickling through his mind.

He thought he should ask something. Antonio thought he should've asked this a long time ago.

"How do you know him?"

Gilbert's expression darkened pensively. "It's kind of complicated, I guess."

Antonio waited.

"Lovino…well, I only know him through Ludwig really. We hung out on a few occasions. Never for very long. He's always been a bit of a loner. He's more so now, but," Gilbert closed his eyes and sighed. "Lovino's brother dated Ludwig for a year."

Antonio didn't know what he was expecting, but certainly not that. His eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Oh really? That's interesting," he responded sincerely. After a few beats, he pushed, "Did they break up or something?"

"No," Gilbert said, and his voice was even. "Feliciano died six months ago."

Was the glass still shattering?

Antonio could barely hear his voice when he coughed a faint, "What?"

"Lovino's brother Feliciano…a nice guy. A _really_ nice guy. That kind of crazy Italian happy, you know?" Gilbert glanced at Antonio briefly, perhaps gaging his reaction. He drummed his fingers on the wire table, and his gaze flit back to Lovino's window. "He was really good for Ludwig. And Ludwig was good for him too. I think even Lovino knew that, though he never said it."

Someone was rattling the gates. Antonio felt something scratch at the iron, trying to touch his heart. What was it exactly? He didn't know. But whatever it was, it  _hurt._  God, it hurt so much. It was always this way with him; if Antonio let himself feel, it was always like this.

He was devastated for Ludwig. He mourned for love that was torn too early.

He was devastated for Feliciano. Antonio didn't know him, but anyone taken so young, so promising, and so vivacious…it's just awful. It's horrible.

And he was devastated for Lovino. He couldn't even imagine—he couldn't even comprehend—it's so otherworldly, so terrible, so ghastly, and so overwhelming…Antonio doesn't even get along with his brother, and he knew he'd be sad if he died. And by the sound of it, Lovino and Feliciano were so much closer.

"He was Lovino's best friend."

Of course he was. Would the glass ever stop?

"Sometimes I wonder if he was Lovino's only friend."

It was like being in a church. Antonio was sitting at a pew; Lovino was sitting at the one across from him. And while the organ played some vague and familiar song, birds flew through the stained glass windows. They splintered, they broke; they fell to the ground in pieces. And it took hours. There was so much glass of so many hues.

Gilbert exhaled loud and tiredly. "Damn it. Life just sucks, doesn't it?" He slumped over his knees and stared at the window.

Antonio saw the glint of blue and purple shards in the space in front of him. He felt tears prick the corners of his eyes.

His first thought was perhaps he cut himself on the corners of the glass when it cascaded around him.

But no.

That's not true.

Gilbert turned to him, and his eyebrows were furrowed. "Are you crying?" he asked softly, kind of incredulously.

Well, fuck.

Antonio shook his head once, twice. He tried to force a laugh as he grabbed his guitar, but he only managed two chords before he collapsed over the wood and strings and sobbed.

There was a dent in the gate.

Just _fuck._

 

* * *

 

Lovino skipped work. He couldn't go. He couldn't.

He shoved the glass to a corner. He didn't sweep it up; he shoved it with his shoe and left it there. Now that the sun had set, and a few dim lights were on, the shards glittered in their corner. Lovino might've been staring at it for hours as he drank wine, glass after glass.

Lovino hated his apartment. He hated it very much. But at the same time, he was terrified of leaving it. It seemed silly to think he may have some sort of agoraphobia or whatever it's called—Lovino wasn't sick. He wasn't weak. He wasn't crazy.

He was just petrified.

So instead of mixing cocktails, pouring beer, and wiping countertops, Lovino was at his shitty little apartment, tipsy off of half a bottle of wine. He didn't want to sit on the facts for so long. He shuffled onto the balcony for a smoke.

It was biting, and it was quiet. Lovino pulled out one of the wire chairs and winced at the grating scratch of metal. He sat down, and curled one leg to his chest. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

…

God, it was glorious.

It did nothing for the shivers in his back or the tremors in his back, but it did relax his chest just a bit.

His gaze was stuck in the dark space. He wasn't looking at anything. He wasn't thinking of anything. This is what his life was.

_"Lovi, please."_

Shut up.

_"I want to go to Piazza Venezia today."_

Shut up.

_"We haven't done anything together in weeks."_

_"Oh yeah? And whose fault is that?"_

SHUT UP.

Lovino crushed the cigarette in his hand at the same time he clenched his eyes shut. There was a tinge of burn, but not really. What was a little of physical annoyance compared to the nightmares galloping and bucking in his head?

He felt his throat closing, his heart pounding.  _Mio Dio,_  light a cigarette. Light one.

Lovino could barely control his hands; he had to grab a cigarette, he had to find the lighter. One step at a time. Come on. Breathe.  _Vai._  Do it. Breathe.  _Breathe._  Brea—

"Shh.  _Todo está bien_ ," someone whispered. " _Está bien. Calma. Calma_."

Lovino's heartbeat stuttered in fright. His eyes darted to the voice in a frenzy, but then he realized…it was Antonio. Just Antonio. That odd Spaniard.

Antonio was on the balcony across from him, sitting in a wire chair just like Lovino's, with eyes red-tinged, dark, and tired—just like Lovino's. His expression wasn't as hard as usual; he looked at Lovino rather desperately, like he was waiting.

But Lovino couldn't talk.

Antonio's face was stressed. It took a few moments. Then he suddenly picked up a brown acoustic guitar and plopped it on his lap. "What song?"

_Song?_

"Is there anything you would like me to play for you?"

…

_I know you know_

_I've seen you know_

_My heart_

Lovino's throat closed; it felt as though a boa was wrapped around his neck. He didn't have any tears left to offer the snake.

"No, no.  _Calma. Est_ —it's okay," Antonio urged passionately.

Lovino was wheezing when he stared at Antonio. He didn't understand what was happening. What did they want from each other?

Antonio was pursing those beautiful lips of his. His dark green eyes were black in the darkness. He flashed a white smile. "I know something," he said, and started strumming. "Just listen, Lovino," he ordered gently.

As if Lovino could do anything else.

Antonio strummed a few chords, he picked up a steady rhythm, and suddenly he was playing a song. It was so sweet. So gentle. Lovino knew this song.

_Gymnopedie No. 1_

Yes, that's what it was. It was smooth, simple, and lovely. Lovino had heard it more often on the piano, but there was something about the guitar that softened it. The way Antonio's fingers caressed the music, it felt tender somehow.

He could breathe.

Antonio's eyes were on him the entire time. Strong and dark and faintly glinting by the light of the balcony. He was the lighthouse. He was helping Lovino home.

Lovino stared at him and kept breathing.

Lovino stared at him and picked up a cigarette.

Lovino stared at him and he turned on the lighter.

Lovino's fingers stopped trembling; he let out a shaky gasp.

Antonio smiled and kept playing. Smoke filled the air once again.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Antonio hung his laundry out to dry on the balcony. There was no sun, but it wasn't raining.

As he pinned his shirt to the wire, he looked across the way, and he saw Lovino still curled in his chair, his eyes closed and his face relaxed. The ashtray was filled to the brim, the box of cigarettes was empty, and the lighter lied there unused. It was like an artist's still life, but amazingly, Lovino was breathing. Slowly and deeply, he continued to breathe.

Antonio finished hanging his clothes, and left the balcony.

 

* * *

 

When he returned at dusk to pick his clothes off of the drying rack, Antonio noticed something peculiar. He pressed the cotton to his nose and inhaled.

Everything smelled of tobacco.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Febbraio_

 

"Hey," Ludwig greeted. He was standing stoically against the brick wall when Lovino exited the apartment complex.

Lovino's eyes took a while to find his. But eventually he glared and muttered, " _Buongiorno_."

Ludwig's lips turned up slightly—at least Lovino replied.

"It looks like the weather's going to suck today too," he continued. Lovino tucked his hands into the pockets of his black coat. He turned his gaze to the gray sky.

"Actually, I think the weather's supposed to hold out today," Ludwig commented, and he pulled out his phone to triple-check. He wasn't planning on bringing an umbrella.

Lovino huffed, and mumbled, "Yeah, well we'll fucking see about that." He coughed into the sleeve of his coat.

Ludwig glanced at him. "Are you sick?"

"I'm a smoker, asshole."

Ludwig grimaced and turned away.  _Every damn tim_ —

"I'm going. See you later." Lovino strutted past him and was already crossing the street.

Ludwig didn't say anything in return. It took him too long to realize that for the first time in their odd relationship, Lovino said hello  _and_  goodbye to him.

 

* * *

 

The metro in Rome was simple. Very old, only two lines, you could hardly mess it up. Lovino was used to taking the metro. It was more dependable than the buses.

He swiped his metro card and lingered behind the yellow line. He stared at the train sitting on the other tracks.

_"These cars are so fucking old. Do you think they'll ever put in new ones?"_

_"Ve~ I think they're rather charming. They're so old and covered with paint."_

_"That's exactly why I don't like them. Weren't you listening?"_

_Feliciano laughed._

When would it stop?

Lovino wanted to ask Ludwig something. He'd been meaning to ask him for a while, because he wanted to know: does it happen to him too? Was Lovino the only one?

When could he walk around Rome without seeing and hearing Feliciano at every turn?

The voice of the metro announced he had reached his stop: _Spagna._

They would always go there on the weekends, when they were off from work. Feliciano would insist on going early in the morning after they stayed out far too late for _aperitivo_  the night before. Feli would make it through a cappuccino, and through walking to the nearest metro stop. But every time, when they reached Spagna, Lovino would look over and Feliciano was fast asleep in his seat.

Lovino was ready to kick his foot and wake him up.

But Feliciano wasn't there.

Lovino was ready to yank him by the collar and pull him away from the take-out pizza place right outside the metro.

But Feliciano wasn't there.

Lovino dove into the usual _tabacchi_  and bought another box of cigarettes. It was too much. He needed to calm down. How could there be too many people and yet not enough?

It was glaringly obvious. Rome was a mosaic. And at every monument, every building, every street, every restaurant, every bar, every café, someone swung their hammer and shattered the painted glass and stone. Everything was incomplete now. And it had no hope of being fixed. The missing pieces were buried ten feet under the ground in a box of hard wood.

"Do you like what you see?" someone asked flirtatiously. It was English with a distinctly French accent.

Lovino dropped the cigarette to the ground and blinked the thoughts to the back of his mind. He stared at the busker in front of him. Lovino hadn't realized he'd been staring. How long had it even been?

The man – a tall, slim blond – was sitting on a stool, and an easel was placed in front of him. He had small painted canvases sitting around him.

"Are you interested in any of these?" the man asked, and he gestured to the paintings on the ground. Some were of monuments, some were of streets, and some were of people.

Lovino frowned automatically and turned away. "No,  _grazie_ ," he muttered. In the past, he was never so polite to buskers; but the soft Italian voice that frequented his head was changing that.

The man's dark blue eyes glinted. "Ah, a local. I should've known," he said as he rose from the stool. He extended his hand. "My name's Francis. I'm an artist…obviously," he added with a wink and a coy smile.

Lovino kept a straight face. It wasn't hard. "I'm Lovino," he replied and shook Francis's hand shortly.

"What a beautiful name," Francis murmured, and his gaze crept knowingly along the edges and curves of Lovino's face. "You seem kind of familiar actually. Have we met before?"

"I live in Rome. Who the hell knows?"

Francis chuckled lightly and musically. "What a practical and reasonable answer. Not romantic at all, if I may say."

Lovino looked at him with tired annoyance.

Francis appeared to appreciate that look, and he stared at Lovino with a bit more intensity. "Would you allow me to paint you? You have a very interesting face. It's familiar, but…melancholy, somehow. I don't know if I can explain it properly in English."

"Then don't," Lovino mumbled, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets. A slight warmth tinged his cheeks. "And don't paint me either."

"Really? That's too bad," Francis said, and his eyes glazed over Lovino's face once more. It was unnerving. Then he asked, "Do you mind if I show you something?"

Lovino's eyes flickered from him to something near the corner of his eye. He was being approached by someone and—

"Ah, Lovino!"

It was Antonio. His eyes were bright, green, and all-encompassing. For a moment, Lovino thought he fell through them and discovered the secrets behind the construction of the glass…but then Antonio smiled. He raised the curtains, and his hand – half out-stretched to touch Lovino's shoulder – retreated back to his side.

He laughed a little to smooth over the transition and continued, "I didn't expect to run into you. It feels kind of improbable, don't you think?"

Lovino eyed him warily. "Do you need something?"

"Oh, well…" Antonio glanced to the sky a bit helplessly. "I was just walking around the city. I was hoping to find Piazza Navona, but then I ended up at the Spanish Steps. Isn't that kind of funny?" He rubbed at his jacket sleeves. They were slightly tattered, and not so warm.

Lovino didn't know to respond to that. He managed to bite back any crass words and gave Antonio a blank and tired stare.

Something akin to mischief glinted in Antonio's eyes and he smiled. Then he turned to Francis—he finally noticed his presence. "Oh,  _ciao!_  Are you a friend of Lovino's?"

Antonio's eyes slid back towards Lovino and he chuckled. "We're neighbors actually. I moved into an apartment across from his about a month ago."

"Is that so? Well, how do you like Rome?"

"It's," Antonio paused to lick his lips. "It's…refreshing."

Francis grinned and he looked at Antonio for what seemed like the first time. "What an interesting way to put it. I don't think I've heard that one before," he said. "You're Spanish, right?"

Lovino watched the two of them carry on a basic and boring conversation and his attention span waned. He started to walk away.

"Hm, Lovino? Where are you going? I wanted to show you something," Francis called. Lovino pretended not to hear.

With the steps came the relief of escape, but this time, there was also a thorn poking at his heart. He didn't know why but—

"Lovino, wait up!" Antonio said. He'd interrupted Lovino's spiral again, and suddenly he was striding side by side with Lovino and looking at him curiously. "Are you in a hurry to go somewhere?"

Lovino glanced at him. "Not really. I'm just…just walking today."

"I see," Antonio murmured, and his smile was a little bitter. "Walking away from your problems then?"

Now Lovino's eyes were glaring. "I'm just walking."

"Whatever you say."

They kept going.

"Are you following me?" Lovino asked.

"I need to go to Piazza Navona."

"Why?"

"I just wanted to I guess."

"That's a shitty reason."

"If I said I was supposed to be meeting the love of my life there, would it be better?"

Lovino opened his mouth to reply, but he was stuck on the border between  _NO_ and  _YES_. Feliciano's conscious might've been melding to his; he didn't know what he thought anymore.

As Lovino was stumbling with no words, the two of them approached a considerable crowd. They were in the shape of a crescent moon, and surrounding two people – a man and a woman – and they were dancing.

Antonio and Lovino shared a brief glance, and the two of them, as if in a trance, approached the couple and watched them dance. They were elegant: she was wearing a dress and heels, with a false rose pinned to her hair, and the man flowed with her across the smooth pavement.

"They're just buskers. I see things like this all the time," Lovino muttered, though his eyes betrayed his interest. Music, singing, dancing…Lovino thought all of it belonged in the past. He thought he would never hear it, never sing it, never see it again. And yet, it still existed. All of it. Quietly, Lovino murmured his curiosity: "I wonder what the dance is." His glance shifted to Antonio, and he was slightly stunned to see that Antonio might have been more affected than him.

Antonio was engulfed. His eyes were tied to the dancers. His expression was heavy with the emotion and angst. He  _felt_  it. He understood. The secrets of his eyes opened up to them.

"It's an Argentinian tango," he said. His lips caressed the words with the most fragility. "It's improvised. The dancers hold each other throughout almost the whole dance," he explained. "It's a lot about trust. They need to know how to follow the other's move, and continue it. It's very fluid, very smooth…it's all about trust."

The words narrated the tap and slide of the shoes, the acoustic rhythm of the speaker, and the occasional trickle of change into the box out front.

Lovino realized that not only were Antonio's hands tender, but his lips were as well.

 

* * *

 

They were at the Pantheon when it was raining. Lovino cursed Ludwig's name under his breath before marching over to a street vendor selling umbrellas. He haggled one for himself, and after watching raindrops fall from the tip of Antonio's nose…he caved and got one for him too.

They walked side by side with their umbrellas. And now the white noise of rain filled the empty spaces. Lovino was a little pissed he couldn't smoke, but he supposed the rain would do for a while. The hum and hiss and roar of rain had the same effect as the slow and steady drift of smoke to the moon.

"Do you like music?" Antonio asked.

Lovino didn't stop his mouth to lie. "…I do," he admitted instead.

_"Please sing for me Lovi. I love your voice. Please sing for me. I love falling asleep to your voice."_

Antonio's voice was gentle when he replied, "That sounds a little reluctant."

Lovino bit his lip and stared at the cobblestones in front of him.

"I understand though," Antonio added smoothly. "Music is too complex to have one feeling for. It's like a person really. There are so many dimensions, so many sides and complexities. And you have memories and experiences that change your perspective…it's complicated," he sighed with a small smile. "I love music, but it hurts to hear sometimes. It's easier if I'm the one making it."

"Did you used to be a musician?" Lovino deflected.

"Something like that. It didn't last long; I'm a terrible performer. I can't make music for large audiences. I prefer things more intimate."

The back of Lovino's neck felt hot, but he chose to ignore it. "Yeah, I…I know what you mean. I used to sing—sometimes. But only for my family," he stuttered softly. "I haven't sung in a long time."

Antonio looked at him, and he ordered with as much earnestness, "You should change that."

_But what's the point? I only sang for…and he's not here anymore._

"Music doesn't belong to anyone. Don't lose it for a person. It doesn't matter who it is, it's just not worth it."

Lovino lowered his umbrella to shield his eyes. He was in his bubble, surrounded by the rain and the sound and the city. His breath still came. He thought he could give his reply, and all at once he whispered:

"Perhaps."

 

* * *

 

_Aren't you?_

_You're blind and you're deaf too_

_Aren't you?_

 

* * *

 

Antonio wasn't a happy person. Was that why Lovino was so drawn to him? Sometimes he wondered if sad was attracted to sad. But then Feliciano's ghost would float back in the room and he'd say no. That wasn't quite it.

But Antonio's sadness was different. It wasn't even sad. Not in the literal way.

Lovino asked Ludwig about him. He had to find out from someone and Ludwig was always more than eager to talk—as to establish their friendship or whatever.

Apparently, Antonio was twice-divorced. He married a Belgian first. Then an Austrian. Each time apparently ended in some serious scandal. The first had something to do with the spouse cheating, and the second had something more to do with an ongoing and endless series of arguments. That's the way Ludwig put it.

So it made sense. Antonio wasn't exactly sad. But he wasn't happy.

He was damaged. A cracked, chipped, broken, and glued-back-together marble statue. He was just as valuable, just as strong, but so much more cautious. So it might've been that peculiar gleam in his eyes upon first introduction that screamed  _Stay. The. Hell. Away._

Because he didn't trust anyone. His dance partners stepped away and found someone else. He was alone on the pavement while the music still played.

Lovino was alone. And he felt like he couldn't do anything about it. He couldn't find a way back to the stream and swim where the rest of time and space continued to flow.

Antonio was alone too. But he was doing everything to stay that way.

 

* * *

 

"Why do you smoke?" Antonio asked. He spoke loud enough so his voice could be carried between the balconies.

Lovino was exhaling. But before he could give his answer, he had to take another drag.

Antonio continued, "I tried it a few times. I never found it very satisfying. It's kind of dull, don't you think?"

Lovino shook his head and smoke escaped his lips. "It takes practice. It's an acquired thing."

"Yeah?"

Lovino nodded, and he tapped the ashes to the ground. "I started when I was thirteen. My grandfather did it, so I thought I should too."

Antonio laughed a little. "That's kind of sweet."

"No, it's not."

"I think it's adorable."

Lovino glared at him and placed the cigarette again between his lips. And he exhaled. "It's hypnotic. And kind of isolating. The smoke just becomes everything and the world doesn't exist anymore."

Antonio weighed his expression and his eyes were keen. "That's quite an answer."

Lovino face heated and he looked down at the ground. "It's also just…nostalgic. I find my  _nonno_  in each pack of cigarettes. It's kind of nice like that."

Antonio smiled and rested his arms on the railing. "You're as romantic as the rest of the Italians it seems."

Lovino flinched. "I am not."

"Oh, but you are."

"I'm a pessimist."

"No, you're a cynic," Antonio corrected, and his eyes danced. There was sun these days, and caught the flecks of olive and gold. "Intelligent romantics are always cynics. It's their tragedy. It's their curse."

Lovino stubbed his cigarette out. "It's just reality," he said.

And he left the balcony.

 

* * *

 

 _"_ _Antonio, you do this to yourself."  
_

He watched Lovino place a pot on the stove. Surely, it was full of water. He was going to have it boil and put in pasta: that's what he did every _Lunedi._

_"Why do you think I started seeing him? Do you think it was because of me? Do you think I'm a whore? Is that it?"_

Perhaps it would be _farfalle t_ oday. Was he pulling out a bottle of wine?—yes, he was. Red, most likely.

Lovino appeared back at the window with an apron tied around his waist. He started chopping vegetables. Those heavy dark eyes lingered on the colors, the knife and the chopping board. Then he finished, and he slid the vegetables onto the griddle.

_"It's your fault Antonio. It's all your fault."_

There was an intensity to Lovino. _Dios,_ it was overwhelming. He was all emotion and no rationale. It was pure in that way. It was beautiful.

_"Don't think I didn't notice the eyes you were making at that man at the restaurant the other day. Don't think I didn't notice the way your face lit up when he was in the room—when you got a chance to talk to him and not me."_

It wasn't so hard to read him. He was as clear and open as the night sky, and it was just as enchanting to follow his stars into their constellations.

_"You fell in love with him, Toni. You fell out of love with me and in love with him and it hurt. You think you I'm the one who cheated because I slept with some stranger and you're as pure as a rose, well you're wrong."_

The night. The night had finally settled; Antonio was thankful for it. Life was easier this way.

And like a moth, Antonio's eyes couldn't miss the glowing light of Lovino's window. He was stirring vegetables and sauce into the pasta.

It was cold, but Antonio hoped Lovino would tour outside anyway. He wanted to see him. He was tired of sitting by himself. He was lonely, he—

_"You give away what matters most. You give anyone your heart."_

Antonio's fingers froze. He was reaching for his guitar to play a tune, but he couldn't. An icy fear spread across his skin. What was happening?

_"You're just addicted to falling in love. You do it so easily. You love too many people and I hate it Toni! I can't do this anymore."_

Antonio's eyes were wide, and his heart was racing. Why would he hear her all of a sudden? Why now?

Just as his grip settled icily over the arm of his guitar, he raised his eyes to the window again. And Lovino was looking back at him. Bright and dark eyes, with lips set somewhere in between a grimace and smile.

And without thinking, Antonio grinned and raised the guitar to his lap.

_"Is it the thrill of the chase you love? Am I too boring now that we're married?"_

Antonio's fingers dug in between the strings. He tried to block her out. It wasn't worth thinking about.

"Are you going to play some of your music or not?" Lovino asked, his rough and smooth voice caressed Antonio's ear. It was the most intriguing sound in the world.

Antonio managed to dig out a laugh from deep down and glance at Lovino wittingly. "Will you sing for me?" He barely caught the glint of Lovino rolling his eyes, but he knew it was there.

"I'm eating, asshole," Lovino muttered and made a show of waving his fork around. He'd set his dinner on the wire table.

Antonio laughed again. It was easier this time. "What should I play?"

Lovino's face pondered. He did a lot of that before slowly he mumbled, "It doesn't matter to me."

"Okay," Antonio replied. His lips were turned up, and he had feeling in his fingers. And when he strummed the guitar, a jolt of life shot up his spine.

He played and looked at Lovino; and Lovino looked back at him.

Eventually, Lovino lit a cigarette. And they both left something in the space between the balconies.

_…_

_"You're a slut, Toni."_

 

* * *

 

_Aren't you?_

_Aren't you?_

 

* * *

 

The calendar had to be wrong. It had to be false. A forgery. A trick. A lie.

How could it already by March?

 

* * *

 

Rome was changing. The clouds were swept away into the mountains, the rain poured somewhere else; Rome was running to spring.

The sun returned to it. He appeared each morning and pulled Antonio out of bed. He guided Antonio to work—to his humble job in construction and repairing old buildings. He burned the stubbornness from Antonio's brow and made him sweat. The sun was his captain. Antonio tried to follow his way.

But the moon was very loyal. She came back every night, and followed Lovino on his long trek to the bar. The darkness of the night cloaked the city that haunted him, and the moon was the lantern to make sure Lovino wouldn't trip. He could see just enough to go to and from the bar. He didn't need more. He didn't need time to keep going.

There were only ten days left.

 

* * *

 

Ludwig was sitting at the café across the street. He was staring at his cappuccino rather pensively as his German newspaper laid on the other side of the table ignored. He was debating on the foam again. It was always the little things that caught him.

Ludwig didn't like the foam. Well, he'd never tried it to tell the truth. But he ordered cappuccinos because Feli liked the foam. He'd insist and beg for it, and Ludwig would get it kind of begrudgingly, but secretly very happily.

He still ordered cappuccinos, but he never drank the foam. It seemed wrong somehow. He would wait for the foam to melt away.

"Hey," Lovino's voice echoed warm and near. Suddenly, he pulled out a chair and sat across from him. "What are you doing?"

"Having breakfast," Ludwig replied simply. He pretended not to notice how familiar the depths of Lovino's eyes were. They didn't look alike, but sometimes…Ludwig lowered his gaze again.

Lovino sighed and he settled more comfortably into the chair. "Do you want me to drink it?"

Ludwig's shoulder's stiffened, and he instinctively reached for the ceramic cup. "No, it's fine," he insisted, and took a brief sip.

Lovino frowned, but didn't say anything.

Ludwig thought perhaps he should. "So, do you have any plans?"

"What?"

"I was asking if you have any plans?" he repeated. Then more belatedly, he added, "…for the seventeenth, I mean."

How could a number have so much power? Since when did the number seventeen possess the ability to silence a heartbeat and freeze skin? Since when was it capable of shattering spines and not allowing anyone to escape—even though the number itself was a warning to  _Run for the hills._

"I—" Lovino started, his voice was very gritty. "I don't."

"Okay," Ludwig said slowly. So far so good. This wasn't bad. "I was thinking of getting flowers and visiting the grave. Perhaps gardenias? Or something else. You know what he liked."

Lovino's lips were firmly pressed together, his eyes didn't waver from Ludwig's, and now they no longer looked like Feli's. Feliciano never looked like this; not even when he tried. Where Feliciano had to talk to explain all of feelings, emotions, and thoughts that flickered through his mind, Lovino could state it in one simple glance. His dark and molten brown eyes could tear at one's throat.

But Ludwig was accustomed to them now. He'd been looking at them since their first introduction two years ago.

_"Feliciano, I am about ninety-two percent certain that your brother despises me," he said once._

_Feliciano laughed first. That was always his first reaction. Then hurriedly, he exclaimed, "Don't be silly, Luddy. Lovino's very good at giving off a bad impression. But I promise he only gets better with time."_

_"Why does that not sound very promising?"_

_Feliciano smiled a little wider. "Lovino's more sensitive than I am. He cares a lot about the people he knows. And I think…he feels a lot more at once than I do. It confuses him, and in the end, doesn't know what he thinks."_

Ludwig held the cup delicately in his fingers, and he took a deep breath. "I think Feliciano would like it if you came."

Lovino's eyes darted down and away. His hands retreated to his pockets, like he was preparing to sprint.

"Lovino, please," Ludwig pleaded, and his voice was slightly desperate. "I don't want to go by myself."

Lovino sat there very still and frozen. He didn't reply. He didn't say anything at all.

_"I promise, Lovino doesn't hate you. He doesn't let himself feel so much for people he hates."_

Then he stood up, plucked the box of cigarettes and lighter from his pocket and dove out the door. He was pacing away and leaving only a trail of smoke.

_"I think secretly, he might even love you."_

Smoke was a warning for fire, wasn't it?

_"Mein Gott, now you're just being ridiculous, Feli."_

 

* * *

 

There was something beautiful to things that belonged to the imagination. They were flowers that were kept free, fresh and untouched. They didn't die. They only blossomed and grew, and continued to grow. Forever.

And a romance that was left to the imagination was much the same way.

Antonio was in the habit of seeing Lovino everyday now—if only a small glimpse of him. He'd see him hanging laundry in the mornings, while smoking. He'd see him eating lunch outside, while smoking. He'd see him drink wine outside, while smoking.

And then there were occasions on the street where Antonio would see Lovino taking a walk—staring only at the road directly in front of him, perhaps wishing that road led to somewhere else.

There was one time that Antonio saw Lovino writing: and he was fairly certain he wasn't supposed to see that. Purely by circumstance, Antonio was lost in the further region of Prati, just wandering around the area in search of a particular grocery store Gilbert had recommended to him. Antonio passed by a park almost entirely shaded by the leaves of trees. There were some benches strewn about, and on one of them sat Lovino. He had a journal in his lap – it looked old from afar – and he was writing stop-and-go.

It was another piece added to the puzzle. The flower blossomed even more.

It was an unknown romance, because did Antonio and Lovino really know each other? They knew each other's tragedies from the loose-mouthed German brothers. Antonio was quite sure Lovino knew about his marriages; there was a sign in the arrangement of planets in Lovino's eyes that said  _I'm sorry, but I know._

Antonio even knew how Lovino lived. It was smoke and booze, smoke and booze. And Antonio was sure Lovino knew how he lived: daydreams, nightmares, and acoustic guitar in between.

It made Antonio believe that he did know him, because he saw more of Lovino than even Ludwig did. It made Antonio feel protective, because he saw the tears that fell after midnight, and he played music to them to make them dry faster.

He was confident that he carried a piece of Lovino's heart in his guitar now.

And so that might explain the sudden sting of possessiveness that surged through his veins nowadays. It began with the Cigarette Lady down the street.

The Cigarette Lady was a woman Antonio had seen only once before when he stepped into a  _tabacchi_  to buy some bus tickets. She was tall with four-inch stilettos, a slender figure and a fur-trimmed coat; she had a slick blonde ponytail, and black eye shadow that accentuated her feline spark.

When Antonio entered she stopped him and asked if he was buying cigarettes. He said he wasn't interested and that was the end of that.

But then he saw her again, and it was with Lovino. Antonio was passing by that same  _tabacchi_  on his way back to the apartment and he spotted Lovino inside chatting with the woman. It made Antonio halt in his tracks because he saw a side of Lovino he'd never seen before…happy.

He was smiling and chatting with her. The Cigarette Lady had her purse open – or what Antonio thought was a purse – and multiple brands of cigarettes were proudly on display.

Antonio wasn't an idiot. He knew it must have been a very charismatic and impassioned talk about cigarettes. He knew it was about money and spending money and smoking and all that jazz.

But in the moment,  _he didn't fucking care._

It was a part of Lovino he didn't know. A part of him that he never saw; that he didn't own, that wasn't his. So it just pointed out the obvious:

Lovino didn't belong to him.

And another day, Lovino was sitting with Ludwig and Gilbert at the café across the street. They were talking, joking, and probably bantering. But the three of them glistened with some sort of comfortable familiarity. They loved each other. It was obvious. In one way or another, they were family.

Lovino didn't belong to him, did he?

And it  _hurt._

The first time Antonio thought about it, his eyes stung: he could've cried. He was repairing a window of some fancy men's clothing store and he was horrified at the despair in his eyes. Because this wasn't love was it? It couldn't be. Antonio couldn't have fallen once again for the same goddamn arrow. Cupid couldn't have stabbed his heart again. He couldn't go through this again. He would bleed out. Other people would fall.

He thought it was a romance, because romance was something purer. Antonio kept it safe in his mind: where all of the possibilities existed without the danger.

It was a flower that would keep blossoming untouched.

Antonio would never dare pick it, for then it wouldn't be too long before it died.

And then dried petals would be all that's left.

 

* * *

 

_There's people that we know, there's places_

_And there's seldomly things we must replace_

 

* * *

 

Five days.

 

* * *

 

The bar Lovino worked at was very popular. It was in the center of Trastevere – where all the young and wonderful lived – and it lived on a street full of many other bars.

Apparently, this was where Gilbert would go out most of his weekends. Ludwig would come out once in a while, but it was never quite his thing. So Gilbert was ecstatic when he finally managed to convince Antonio to try it out. It was the mention of Lovino's bar that did the trick in the end.

That Friday night, the two of them went out. They stopped at a pizzeria for dinner and split two bottles of wine. They felt properly tipsy so it was onward to  _Caravaggio's_ —that was the name of the bar.

People of all sorts were leaking out the door. Most were holding cocktails and drunkenly conversing outside as they smoked. Some, like Gilbert and Antonio, were fighting for their way in. It was a small establishment: it was Rome, so it's not like there were any large bars.

Gilbert marched his way to the front of the bar to order a B59. Antonio tagged behind him, but his wits were slower, and his dizzy eyes fluttered around the room for the flower he'd been fawning over.

It took two inebriated steps forward and a sloppy rest of his elbow on the kitchen counter for him to hear:

"What the hell are you doing here?" Lovino's dark and murky eyes were sparkling in front of him.

Antonio's stomach flipped and he his smile came fast and natural. "Gilbert wanted to take me out, and I wanted to see where you work," he said, and his voice was very giddy.

Lovino alternated his glare in Gilbert's direction for a hot second, but he was busy flirting with the female bartender. Lovino pursed his lips and looked at Antonio again. "What do you want?"

Antonio glanced down at the menu. "Um, how about…a Moscow Mule? I don't know what that is, but it sounds interesting."

"Great," Lovino muttered. He grabbed a plastic cup and held it under a sink. In less than seconds he handed the cup to Antonio, "Here you go."

It took a while for Antonio to process it. "This is water."

"It is."

"That's not what I ordered."

"You wouldn't be able to taste the difference anyway."

"What are you saying?"

"That you're trashed."

Antonio laughed and laughed and rested his face on the bar. " _Dios mio,_  you're so funny. You should talk more, you know?"

Lovino's hands were on his shoulders and struggling to lift him up. "I talk when I need to talk. I don't waste my words on nonsense," he mumbled. "Now get up already. This bar is filthy. You don't want to know what happens here."

Antonio raised his head faster than either of them expected and he was eye to eye with Lovino.

_"You know, Toni…I wish you never talked to me that one day at the restaurant."_

How many barriers did Antonio stumble through? Had the two of them ever been so close before?

"You have planets in your eyes," Antonio mused wondrously. He was enraptured in Lovino's gaze. He felt privileged to be this close. The universe really did exist in Lovino's eyes: that's why he was all chaos. So much was inside him and he couldn't know.

Lovino's lips turned up at the same time his eyebrows knit together. "What are you talking about  _idiota?"_  he asked. His voice was that familiar melody of honey and charcoal.

Antonio tried to grasp Lovino's face, but he couldn't catch it—wasn't that always the way? "Your eyes," he murmured. "They have planets in them. The three dark black spots."

Lovino chuckled kind of amused, and grasped Antonio's hand. It felt like fire, but only for a moment, as Lovino guided Antonio's hand around the cup of water. "Here," he ordered. "Drink this and they'll go away."

_"Why couldn't you be just fine with how things were?"_

Antonio laughed for some reason, and he smiled with more confidence than he knew he possessed. "Do you want to bet?"

"Sure, sure," Lovino shrugged dismissively. He encouraged the cup of water down Antonio's throat.

Antonio coughed a little, and some water dribbled onto his shirt. "Hey," he complained.

Lovino dropped the empty cup in the trash. "You'll thank me tomorrow. Let me dig up something to eat for you." He wandered behind the counter, opening and closing cabinets.

Antonio pouted, but was kept highly entertained as he watched Lovino work. It was unnatural to see him move so quickly—what happened to the man that would sit on the balcony for hours into the night, just smoking and relighting cigarettes?

In a flash, Lovino was in front of him again, and he was holding a few packets of crackers. "It's all we have," he said. "How about you sit down on the couch and eat these and I'll order the German bastard to take you home?"

Antonio took the crackers and stared at them in something akin to wonder. "These are for me?"

"They are," Lovino snickered. He started wiping the countertop.

Antonio's eyes were still fixed on the crackers, but only because his mind was trying its very hardest to think. His head was full of water; he could think, but everything was distorted. It was kind of free this way.

_"We would look at each other from across the room. I'd play my piano, and you'd play your guitar. Wasn't it fine like that?"_

"Are you still standing here?" Lovino asked him.

Antonio raised his gaze to look at Lovino again. "Can I eat them outside?"

Lovino raised an eyebrow. "I mean, yeah. If you want to, go ahead."

"Can you join me?"

Lovino's cheeks colored slightly—Antonio thought they always looked better that way. He crossed his arms protectively. "What for?"

"Just to keep me company."

"…You don't need company."

"We can keep each other company then," Antonio settled, and he gave what he hoped was a knowing look.

But Lovino turned his head away, and he busied himself with wiping his hands on a towel. After a minute of wringing his fingers, he muttered a fast, "Fine. I need a cigarette." And in a few fast steps he was on the other side of the counter, suddenly shorter than a few seconds ago, and much more like the Lovino of the balcony Antonio used to know.

They fought their way outside. Lovino was very lithe and exceptional when it came to maneuvering through a crowd. Antonio was never good at it, so he followed behind. He didn't realize Lovino was dragging him by his hand until they were hit by the bite of cold air and he no longer felt a warm palm in his.

Lovino leaned against the brick wall of a secluded alleyway and fished out his box of cigarettes. He lit one in a second, and there was smoke in the air again.

"You're addicted, aren't you," Antonio said wistfully. It wasn't even a question. He didn't know why he said that. It must have been the wine.

Lovino only reacted by taking another long drag. "Eat your crackers before you puke."

Antonio chuckled and began opening the wrapper. He broke off pieces and started eating them one by one.

"Do you like Rome?"

"I live here."

"But do you like it?"

Lovino was quiet for a moment. "I don't like it. At all, really. But," he sighed. "I love it anyway."

Antonio nodded his head. "Yeah, there's some sort of bittersweet romance with the place you're from. I feel like everyone ends up hating it, but always returning. Perhaps home is our siren."

Lovino rolled his eyes. "God, you're drunk."

Antonio's lips spread slow and lazy. "I'm not that drunk, really," he said. "I've been far more drunk in the past, and that was when I was sober."

"Start making sense you imbecile."

Antonio's laugh was breathy and he murmured, "All right, then." He rolled off of the wall and stood next to Lovino. By his stature, Antonio was almost looming over him, and his eyes were so intent. Not intense. They were intent. Because he always had a purpose.

_"You ruined everything, Toni. You had to have everything. You had to have me, and it's all ruined now."_

Lovino matched his gaze, and inhaled the smoke.

"Love," Antonio explained. He chuckled almost helplessly. "I'm always an idiot in love. There's nothing like the merciless plunge into love. You become powerless – all of your free will is stripped away – yet despite it all, you feel the most invincible you've ever felt. I don't think any amount of alcohol could match that. I would have become an alcoholic if that were the case."

Pain. Pain. Pain. Squeezing the heart, stinging the eyes—just push it down. Lovino's voice was soft: "Addictions never solve anything, really…Feliciano would always—" His voice stopped. He couldn't talk anymore. Lovino's throat closed and he could only close his mouth and look down.

Antonio didn't reply right away. Lovino didn't know if he was expecting something or not. Feliciano was never brought up with anyone other than Ludwig. No one was permitted to say or know or hear.

Then Antonio's husky Spanish accent whispered, "When I met my wife, I was a barista."

Lovino dropped his cigarette and tried to breathe instead. He listened to Antonio.

"I was a barista, and she was a baker. This was in Lisbon. I was living with my brother at the time, and I just got any little job to get by," he continued. "Then Emma walked into the café. She ordered an espresso macchiato. And she came back everyday and ordered one."

They were looking unwaveringly at each other now. Lovino noticed the glass in Antonio's eyes…it wasn't there any longer.

"After we separated," he said. "I stopped drinking coffee. I couldn't stand the smell. I couldn't stand the sight. I just couldn't stand it." Antonio's hand reached down, and it grasped Lovino's shaking one—his hands were always shaking. "When I met my husband, we were both playing music. It was lovely music. We played everyday when we were happy." Antonio grasped Lovino's other hand. It was shaking too, of course. "And when we broke up, I lived in complete silence. I couldn't hear the music. I didn't want to. I didn't want to hear anything again."

It took so much for Lovino to scrounge an ounce of courage and retort, "So?"

Antonio smiled, and this time gentler. "I'm just saying, I tried to give up life and keep living, and it just didn't work. I thought I should give you a head's up."

"I'm doing just fine," Lovino muttered.

"I don't believe that," Antonio replied swiftly. "And I know because I'm not doing fine either." His eyes were green and lost and they shifted to the wall beside Lovino's head; they looked at nothing. "What I wouldn't give to be drunk like that again," he said wistfully.

Lovino couldn't take it.

He slipped his hands out of Antonio's grasp and fisted them in his dark, curly hair. Then he yanked Antonio's face forward until their lips crashed in a rough, uncoordinated kiss. Neither of them expected it. Antonio was tipsy. Lovino was sad. Or perhaps both of them were sad, and both of them were tipsy. And perhaps that's also why when they did kiss, it didn't feel like a surprise. It felt like  _Finally._

Suddenly there were hands on hips, and hands on skin, and lips and tongue pushing deeper, more passionately. It was  _more._

More tan skin.

More green eyes.

More dark hair.

More tobacco breath.

More Italian.

More Spanish.

…

_"How am I supposed to play music again without thinking of you?"_

And then Antonio opened his eyes and he heard a violent  _SNAP._  It was a tear, a pluck, a break in the fibrous green stem. What was he thinking?

It wasn't  _Finally,_  it was  _What the fuck are you doing?_

Antonio pushed Lovino away. Lovino fell back against the wall; his hair was mussed and splayed, and his breath was short and panting. Antonio cursed the moon for lighting Lovino's dark, dark eyes and smooth, smooth skin in just the right way. It made his swollen lips glisten. He was talking.

"Wh-what?" he coughed. His voice was shaking. Just like his hands. Just like his everything. Because he was a picked flower now. He wasn't safe.

Antonio's blood was cold and his eyes were distant with fear and dread. "What?" he repeated back. His voice was just as weak.

Lovino's eyebrows knit together in something akin to concern or frustration. "What's wrong?"

"Didn't I just finish telling you," Antonio replied lowly. Some mysterious fierceness spilt in his chest. "Everything's wrong. Everything. Every goddamn thing."

"I know, but—"

"I can't do this again. I can't. I shouldn't. It's never worth it. It never is," Antonio continued rapidly. He sounded more desperate than angry. "I need you to leave me alone. I need to be alone. I need to be. Don't you get it?"

Now Lovino could feel the faint throb in his head. His heart stopped fluttering. His eyes could no longer see stars. "No," he murmured. "No one needs to be alone."

"I need to be."

"No, you don't."

Antonio took a step back and ran his hand roughly through his hair. "You don't get it. You don't get it at all."

Lovino's eyes were very heavy. He let his gaze fall to the ground. "You think I don't understand loneliness?"

Antonio didn't seem to hear him. He was chanting, "I can't do this. Not again. What did I say earlier? That love was like being drunk?  _Dios,_  it is. It is. I don't think of the consequences. The hangover. The pain in the side. The pain in the head. Pain. Pain. Pain. That's all it is. Emma. Roderich. Some guy named Tim. Some girl in Hungary. I can't do this. I…"

Lovino had his hands on Antonio's. They tore them away from Antonio's scalp and held them tight. Their breaths mingled together messily for a moment and Lovino dove in. He kissed Antonio more precise, more lovingly, more purposefully. He was trying to convince him of something.

Then he unlocked their lips to whisper, "Who was the one that said that giving up life to keep living doesn't work?"

Antonio's expression turned severe. He distanced himself further and muttered, "Love has nothing to do with life and living. Love is the pain before death. It's torture. And it's not worth it."

What was Lovino supposed to say to that?

Antonio didn't wait to find out. He wrenched his arm from Lovino's pathetic grasp and marched out of the alleyway—back into the anonymity of the crowded night.

Music was his aid. It blocked everything.

Italians were screaming about a football game—Antonio couldn't hear Lovino's breaths.

American tourists were asking for directions—Antonio couldn't hear Lovino's rough voice.

A few drunk boys collapsed to the floor in a big hoopla—Antonio couldn't pretend to hear the songs Lovino never sung, the confessions that hadn't been told, the poetry that hadn't left the confines of a private journal.

Antonio picked his flower.

Roderich was fucking right.

Antonio picked his flower.

It was going to wilt now.


	3. Chapter 3

_There's holy days and there's Sundays_ _  
_ _And there's hope every weekend, we make it_

 

* * *

 

Four days.

 

* * *

 

Antonio woke up to aches everywhere. He had fallen asleep on the couch in Gilbert's room in a contorted position. His neck was strained, his legs were heavy, and a hammer inside his head was batting his skull incessantly. Dull voices echoed everywhere.

Antonio decided to stay home that day.

He didn't go out on the balcony; he kept the doors closed and locked. At some dark point in the night however, he pulled back the curtain of his windows—too desperate to forgo the balcony across from him.

The lights were off. The blinds were drawn. He saw no one.

Even the ashtray was empty.

 

* * *

 

Lovino didn't wake up, because he never went to bed.

He collapsed on his mattress in his weather-worn and tobacco dipped clothes, and stared at the starch white wall. He cried. He cried for minutes and hours. He cried until small fragments of sunlight streamed into the room. He cried until he was dry and empty.

He couldn't leave the house that day.

It was a Sunday. Everything was closed. Rome shut down, so why couldn't Lovino?

He didn't have any cigarettes to get up for anyway.

 

* * *

 

Three days.

 

* * *

 

Rain never comes when you want it to, the weather never listens to the cries of your heart. Actually, it seems as though it will always do the opposite to taunt you, tease you, and remind you ever so loudly that you're just too small to do anything about it.

The sun came out, and Antonio had no choice but to open his eyes and face its brilliance. His body was stiff from twenty-four hours of bed rest, but he rose to stumble towards the glass doors. The curtains were pushed aside slightly – he didn't remember doing that – and the sunlight glinted strong from the rooftops and glass opposite him. Antonio's eyes were still tender with sleep, and he closed them to the sight. But just after sunlight made him bow, it compelled him to rise again, and Antonio couldn't fight the instinct to look across the way.

And he doesn't remember ever seeing Rome this way.

White. His eyes were stunned white from the clarity. Since when has Rome's air been so pure, and so light? Antonio's eyes flew through the air, he saw so much. Curious and stunned, Antonio unlatched the door, and stepped out onto the balcony with bare feet. It was…warm.

He leaned against the railing and wrapped his fingers around the iron. Of course, Antonio's eyes flit all over the panorama – he was victim to the brightness – but it was inevitable that his gaze should fall heavy on the apartment across from him. And it paralyzed him.

Chipped paint. Cracks…everywhere. Two chairs, barely standing. A table covered in ashes. A dozen empty wine bottles in the corner. And cigarettes blanketing the ground.

Was it because of the rain? Or the exhaustion? Or because Lovino always carried a veil of smoke with him?

In all of his stay, how was it that Antonio never noticed how _ugly_  Lovino's apartment was? It's not as though any of it was new; the pieces might have been fresh, but the habits were the same.

He watched the wind knock ashes over the table, and some cigarettes tussled over one another, tapping the green, empty bottles. Antonio's shoulders slumped, and he sighed. He didn't want to see anyone else's pain but his own. That was the reason. If he didn't bother looking, how could he see that everyone else in the world was suffering too?

Another sigh, and he let go of the railing. When Antonio walked indoors, he suddenly felt too comfortable.

He was just so goddamn self-absorbed.

 

* * *

 

"Hey Gilbert, have you seen my black pair of pants? I thought I left it on the balcony to dry, but it's not there anymore," Antonio asked, as he jogged into the kitchen. He was fresh-faced and dewy from the shower; water still dropped from his hair.

It took a moment for Gilbert to set down his newspaper, but when he did, his eyes lit up. "Oh, right," he exclaimed, and jumped from his seat. He started walking out of the kitchen, so Antonio followed him. "Sorry man, I needed space to hang my laundry, and your clothes were already dry, so I took them down," he said as they entered his room.

Antonio chuckled. "That's all right. I kind of forgot I left them there. I hope it wasn't any troub…" his voice trailed off at the sight of Gilbert's bed. "You folded all of my clothes?" he asked.

Gilbert glanced between the clothes and Antonio, and perhaps for the first time since their encounter, Gilbert looked slightly…embarrassed? "Uh, yeah," he laughed, as he straightened the sleeves of his suit. "When I have a lot on my mind, I tend to just clean. And your clothes happened to be there, so sorry about that."

"No, no," Antonio said as he grasped his tidy pile. "Don't apologize for that. I mean, I never fold my clothes, so it's kind of nice for a change."

Gilbert looked at him and his usual grin spread across his cheeks. "Well then, you're welcome," he jeered, and the usual spark returned to his eyes. He gave Antonio a once over. "So are you running a bit late this morning?"

Antonio grimaced slightly. "Yeah, I suppose I am. I don't have time to walk to the metro, so I'm wondering if I should take the bus around the corner."

"Oh, that's never going to come," Gilbert dismissed with a wave of his hand. "But, why don't I give you a ride today. I'm going your way for once."

"Really?" Antonio's voice sounded hopeful.

"Yeah, it's no problem."

Antonio was ready in five minutes flat, though his curls were still damp, and he trotted out the door with Gilbert. Of course, Gilbert and his brother never took the elevator, so it was four floors down before they exited the complex and turned a corner to a street of parked cars. They neared a black four-door car, fairly standard, Antonio couldn't tell what brand; and they both slid into the seats.

After he heard Gilbert buckle up, Antonio snapped out of his reverie and did the same. And soon, they were free from the parking spot, and skidding down the Roman streets. Everything went by so fast from looking out the window. Did life always go by that fast? Antonio already felt older by the time they reached the first red light.

Gilbert sighed and relaxed a bit in his seat: impatient for the light to turn.

Antonio pressed his lips together and continued to stare out the glass. Sometimes traveling helped put things in perspective, but the really, the only thing Antonio's eyes could catch were the flashes of color. Even sitting still, he didn't see figures or forms, he just saw patchworks of color. Like a mosaic. Or a field of flowers.

"Oh," Gilbert breathed, and his gaze turned to the direction of Antonio's window.

Antonio looked away from the front and to Gilbert. "What is it?"

Gilbert pointed over his shoulder very briefly. "Lovino. He's walking down the street."

At the sound of that name, Antonio whipped his hair around – some stray droplets flew with him – and he held a breath when his eyes caught the familiar fast sway of Lovino's figure. He was pacing down the sidewalk beside them, wearing less than his usual black coat, and without the layers, Antonio realized just how small he was. Not so much in stature as in build. He looked as young and tender as a fawn. Jesus.

 _Why the fuck_  couldn't Antonio see past his own loneliness, and his own pain?

 _Why the fuck_  couldn't Antonio hear past his own constant, annoying, internal monologue?

He didn't have an answer, so instead, he asked, "Um, should we offer him a ride or something?" Antonio glanced in Gilbert's direction for an answer.

Gilbert's eyes were heavy and dark. "No," he said. The light turned green, and he started the car down the street once again. "Lovino doesn't ride in cars anymore."

"Oh," Antonio gasped, as the realization hit him all at once. He waited a few moments, preparing his voice, before he asked, "Was he the one driving when it happened?"

Gilbert turned hard to the left. Antonio swayed with the car, a little unprepared.

"Nope," Gilbert replied curtly.

"Oh," Antonio exhaled.

The car turned again. A sharp right.

"I was."

Antonio's heart stopped. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't look, he didn't know what to sa—

"One thing that's interesting though," Gilbert continued, his voice clipped. "Lovino never once blamed me for what happened. He never got mad at me. He never even raised his voice."

Antonio took a risk and glanced at him.

Gilbert was staring at the road, his eyes looking faraway. "Not even once," he repeated.

 

* * *

 

 _We find truth in all of our losses_ _  
And we build from what we can not possibly bear to see_

 

* * *

 

_"Do you have a favorite flower, Lovi?"_

_Lovino was dozing off in his chair when Feli asked the question. He rocked back to reality and shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun. He could only see Feli's profile._

_"Um," he paused. "Maybe roses or carnations." Lovino shrugged his shoulders glanced around their stand. It was towards the end of the day and there were less flowers now. It was a bittersweet time._

_Feli hummed as he leaned over the cases, sniffing each flower. "I can see that. They suit you. Beautiful, colorful, and complicated."_

_"They're flowers, Feli."_

_"Still though! I think it says a lot."_

_"Uh-huh."_

_Feli stretched his arms and exhaled grandly. "I think my favorite might be sunflowers."_

_"I didn't ask you."_

_"They're so happy, and smiling. And they try to stand so tall for a flower."_

_Lovino thought for a moment, and added, "I don't know. They're kind of weird looking."_

_"That's right," Feli smiled. "They're so imperfect."_

Lovino sighed and let his memory burn away in the sunlight. He was standing in the center of Campo de Fiori, watching the world pass through, surrounded by flowers and fruits and color. It was more than he remembered. How was he ever part of that world to begin with?

_"I love their imperfections though. It makes them so tender. So sweet. Just so…human."_

With the decision guiding his steps, Lovino dug his nails into his palms and strode forward into the stands. He picked his small purchase, dropped the coins with shaking hands, and swiftly, exited as he came.

Maneuvering the crowds like he had never even left.

 

* * *

 

 _To see_ _  
To see_

 

* * *

 

Ludwig was sitting on the curb, when Lovino saw him. It was odd, new, and so very not-like-Ludwig, so at once, Lovino slowed his pace. He wondered if something was wrong.

With the fight or flee fight or flee debate still ringing in his head, Lovino tentatively walked to the curb. Ludwig finally heard him and looked up from the pavement he was staring at: something small, orange and striped was sitting there.

Lovino narrowed his eyes. "Is that a…cat?"

Ludwig's face retreated into feign disinterest, but red still glowed in his cheeks. "Um, it's a kitten, yes. I was going inside when I saw it here, so I'm just…" his voice trailed off as the kitten batted his hand with a paw. He sighed and offered, "She seemed kind of lonely."

"Aren't they all?" Lovino muttered, and he abruptly dropped his weight on the space nearby. The kitten jumped and hid behind Ludwig's arm. Lovino ignore it and rolled his eyes. "You going to keep her?"

"Oh, well," Ludwig breathed and he looked at the kitten. "I don't really know. I'm more of a dog person really."

"Of course you are."

The kitten jumped at Ludwig's arm and held on. He smiled, "But it might be nice to have a pet around the house."

Lovino glanced at Ludwig, watched him smile, and he tried hard to suppress the urge to wipe that happiness from his face and toss it in the trash. He felt that urge too often. He knew that. But…it was still hard to see people moving on when you're not ready too.

Lovino clasped his hands together, averted his gaze to the other side, and gnawed at his lip. It took a few seconds. Then he blurted, "Sunflowers."

Ludwig stopped playing with the kitten and looked over. "What was that?"

Lovino started shaking his leg; distracting himself. "Sunflowers," he repeated. "They're—um. They're Feli's favorites."

Ludwig wasn't smiling anymore, but he wasn't frowning either. He was looking at Lovino with so much softness. And he replied, "I didn't know."

Lovino nodded his head shortly, and stayed silent.

"Did you want anything for yourse—"

Lovino cut him off with a fast shake of his head. His teeth chewed at his lip, and he didn't say a word.

Ludwig waited for anything more, but when it didn't come, he asked, "Are you—will you come that day?"

That day. Wednesday. The seventeenth of March.

So many emotions turned in Lovino's blood, his head span. He didn't know what to make of it, but he also didn't want to take the time to mull it over. It took all he had to grit his teeth and force a curt nod.

He heard Ludwig's breath catch, then a careful, "Really?"

Lovino bit his lip and nodded again. But when he felt the shift in Ludwig's stance and the noisy silence of  _about to say something_ , and Lovino couldn't take it.

" _Ciao_ ," he coughed as he scrambled to his feet. Ludwig's hand almost touched his shoulder—Lovino knew because he craved that contact.  _Human_ contact. But if he allowed himself that comfort, he might start crying. And that's not allowed in front of Ludwig.

So instead, Lovino dashed off the curb, and into the building. He let the glass doors close too hard behind him, and the solid sound was kind of reassuring.

At least there were some things capable of withstanding the close.

 

* * *

 

It was a quarter until midnight when Lovino checked the clock again. He was sitting in his kitchen, still fully dressed, with his purchase sitting tauntingly in front of him. Sunflower seeds.

It'd been ages since he had laid his hands on a flower. He wondered if he could still help things grow. Could he still touch things as delicately as he used to?

His fingers were nervously picking at the skin of his fingers when he heard the familiar tuning of Antonio's guitar. The music drifted through the flimsy walls and slowly eased the tension from Lovino's hands. He even felt his heart slow.

So as the guitar strummed anonymous tunes, Lovino pulled his pot closer, and as the pace slowed, he parted a clump of dirt away and picked up the seed. Then along with the rhythm of the chords, Lovino dropped the seed, buried it, and watered the top.

He walked to his window, drew the blinds, placed his pot on the sill; then he caught the fierce green of Antonio's eyes looking up at him. Lovino stayed there watching longer than he should, and when the clock struck twelve, his heart beat along with it.

 

* * *

 

Two days.

 

* * *

 

Antonio remained for ages. It was nearing the early hours of the morning, and the voice of reason inside his head warned him that he had errands and work to do tomorrow, that tomorrow was _important_. But when tomorrow was already today…Antonio sighed and reasoned he needed all the time he had to mull over his thoughts and actions.

At some point, he heard the doors slide open, and another figure step onto the balcony. Without looking, he figured it was Gilbert: he had a habit of stopping by unannounced. But when Antonio's eyes betrayed him and he looked over, he saw that it was Ludwig.

Ludwig quickly caught his stare and looked down bashfully. "Sorry," he said, "do you mind if I join you?"

Having forgotten about the other human existence since Lovino left, Antonio scrambled to his manners, replying, "Of course! Yeah, sit down. Please."

Ludwig smiled and sat down in the other chair. He was carrying an opened beer, and gingerly took a sip. The Bielschmidt brothers never drank wine, Antonio noticed. It was kind of funny that way, but fitting still.

"Have you talked to Lovino recently?" Ludwig asked.

Antonio halted in his strumming of the guitar, and he felt his face flush. (Not that anything happened, of course. But somehow, since that Saturday, he felt like  _everything_  happened.) "I haven't. Not for a while actually."

Ludwig glanced over his expression coolly; he never gave away his emotions freely. "I see," he murmured.

Silence lingered in the air, so Antonio decided to fill some of it with his clumsy notes. For some reason his usual musical coordination betrayed him at the moments he needed it most, and he wished so desperately for Lovino's cloud of smoke to appear. But it didn't. It hasn't for days.

"What was Feliciano like?' Antonio asked suddenly. Some force inside of his head which he had no control over compelled him to ask the question, but he regretted it as soon as he asked, and backtracked. "I'm sorry—If you don't want to say I—"

"No, no," Ludwig stopped him, and his voice was calm. He placated Antonio with another soft smile. "It's fine, I…I like to talk about him."

Antonio relaxed in his chair and held his guitar, not strumming anymore.

Ludwig looked in the direction of Lovino's apartment, but his eyes were very far away. They were mystical. "Feliciano was beautiful, and very kind," he said. "You probably already know that he and Lovino owned a flower shop together in Campo de Fiori."

Antonio nodded his head. He'd heard that much from Gilbert already. It was one of his first questions.

"I met him there. I wasn't looking for flowers. I was just walking around town at the time, but I got distracted and I…" he laughed and shifted in his chair. "Feliciano was very persuasive when he wanted to be. He could attract  _anyone_  to their stand. And he was so charming, and so kind, and so  _open_." Ludwig stopped and closed his eyes. "I'd never met anyone like that before. He was so opposite of me…but I—he was like a breath of fresh air. He swept over me like a breeze."

Antonio listened and his heart was enchanted. This was a part of Lovino's past that he could never touch, or know—but he wanted to. So, _so_  much. "Feliciano was everything to Lovino, wasn't he?" he said, and it was more of a statement.

Ludwig turned to him, his blue eyes sharp. "Yes, I think he was," he said. He looked at his beer, then added, "I think he still is actually."

 _Of course,_  Antonio thought.  _Because people never die in your mind._ It's impossible, because  _nothing_ dies in your mind _._  Thoughts and memories are nomadic, but they are immortal. "I can see that," he whispered quietly.

Ludwig nodded and took a swig of his beer.

Antonio hesitated, but asked anyway, "What was Lovino like?"  _Before the accident_  was left unsaid.

It took a moment for Ludwig to reply. He furrowed his brows and concentrated on the concrete of the balcony floor. "Lovino was…much the same actually," he revealed, "but in some ways he was less…like less harsh, and less vacant. Less wanting to be somewhere else." Then his gaze met Antonio's and he finished, "But he was also  _harsher_ —and brasher. Where Feliciano was all softness and lightness, Lovino was all passion and intensity. Kind of abrasive actually, but also just—just him."

The words echoed into the empty space, and Antonio let them linger there. He wanted so desperately to hear those words said aloud, because he knew. He knew already what Lovino was like. Of course he knew, because Antonio was the same way. In his own version of dark pasts he understood; he even told Lovino about this. You give up a part of yourself when you lose the one you love, but whereas Antonio's was voluntary, Lovino's wasn't. That was the difference.

But was the chasm really so grand?

Antonio wasn't sure anymore. Before, he thought that his might've been worse; he always thought that. Because how could a stranger understand what he was feeling, and what his pain was? But at the same time, Lovino suffered a loss. It wasn't just a parting of ways, or a split in the road, or even a dead-end. It was as if the road was ripped from underneath him entirely. He didn't know where to go anymore.

"I'm an idiot," Antonio chuckled, and he raked his hand through his hair. His eyes were shining, and gazing wistfully at the balcony across from him. But there was nothing to see because it was empty, dark and closed. The space was closed to him now. "I'm such an idiot," he murmured again.

Ludwig didn't argue, but didn't agree either. "I didn't like him back then," he said. "But Feliciano would always say how they were reversed. Feliciano had a soft shell, but was very hard and strong underneath, and Lovino…was the just the other way around."

Antonio smiled, though the smile hurt more now.

"I like Lovino," Ludwig added, "I like him more now than I did." He took a few swigs of his beer and let the oppressing silence of the night surround him. "But I think he likes you too, you know? I think he needs you."

 _But what good would I do him?_  Just another chipped piece.

"Yeah," Antonio replied. "Yeah…" he repeated quieter.

And they sat together for another hour, just basking in the night; because at least the quiet of the too-early morning was something to calm them. It was the time that made the rest of the day seem vulnerable, and that maybe they could conquer it.

They wanted to bask in it a little bit longer.

But Antonio couldn't help but miss the company of some second-hand smoke that usually came with it.

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, it seemed as though the morning would never, ever be welcome in Rome. It was always too early, or too late: just not at the right time. And Lovino felt like that morning after morning after morning again, because he knew the routine. Of course, he did.

But he was trying. Lovino was trying these mornings harder than every other; despite the fact that they inevitably sucked, and that too much happiness and brightness reigned down on him when he was still stuck in the darkness of the mind. He really was trying. So he pulled himself out from under the safety of his covers, and began the usual early routine.

He went through the motions, as he always did. It wasn't as though he tasted the toothpaste anymore, or felt the scalding water of the shower; he didn't even feel the first cup of caffeine. It was just part of the script that he was forced to follow, and he did, and Lovino continued through his day, even through his errands: following his mind to the lost path through Piazza di Spagna—usually meant for those lost hangover days with Feliciano, but now…there seemed to be another connotation tied to the place.

But how could that be? Lovino hadn't moved on from the accident, He really hadn't. There was no way his heart could be panging for someone other than the most important person in his life. Especially two days before the seventeenth. It was impossible, it was disloyal, it was…fucking  _horrible_.

He sat on the steps watching the lovers hold hands and stroll by, and wondered with distraught realization that he was thinking about the fucking Spanish idiot that denied him two days before the anniversary of his brother's death. How fucked up and selfish was that?

He was the worst.

"Oh, it's you little Italian!" a French accent sang.

Correction: everyone else was the worst too.

Lovino raised his gaze from a stained spot on the ground to a familiar young gentleman grinning before him. "Hello?..." he began cautiously, but at once realized his mistake.

"Oh, you recognized me, hm?" the man laughed and flipped his lush, blond hair. "I'm so flattered you do. But I suppose it's not often you come across the rare blend of brains, beauty and talent, no?"

Lovino's tired, not-nearly-caffeinated brain caught up with him, and he muttered a low, "God fucking damn it."

"Now, now," the man ( _what was his name?)_  reprimanded, "that's not the language you use in front of your colleagues, now is it?"

Lovino sighed and rolled his eyes. "What are you doing here?" he asked in resignation. It's not as though this man would actually concede defeat. He definitely wasn't the type.

The man smiled, and his blue eyes glittered something untraceable. "I'm the artist, don't you remember?" he declared dramatically. "But perhaps our previous encounter was too brief. I recall that you were pulled away too early. I wanted to show you something, remember?"

Lovino pressed his lips together and shifted his gaze to the side. "Yeah, I remember."

"Ah, so it seems my zest has not gone unnoticed!"

"You're too annoying to forget apparently."

The man laughed carelessly, and Lovino dared to think that it actually sounded nostalgic to hear—it's not as though he actually liked the man. It was exactly the opposite.

"Lovino," he said, and his voice was compelling. "I wanted to show you something. Will you please follow me?"

 _Why did those words sound like a trap?_  Lovino wondered. Was it because Feliciano so often said the same things? Or was Lovino so embittered and tired that he didn't recognize friendliness when he heard it? What could it even be anymore?

It took several moments between grunts, tapping feet, and nervous fingers for Lovino to exclaim an exasperated, "Fine, you win." And he followed the flamboyant French artist away from the steps and to the open and crowded center of the piazza.

They approached a stand – Lovino assumed the same stand as last time – and he momentarily wondered how the man could leave it unattended. Then Lovino realized he didn't care and scoffed.

"So, how are you doing this fine Roman morning?" the man asked. "And my name is Francis, in case you've forgotten.

That was it, Lovino recalled. (Not that he cared anyway.) "I'm fine," he muttered.

"Ah-ha! Those are the two biggest lies in the dictionary. How about trying again?"

Lovino crossed his arms over his chest and looked to the side. "I'm  _tired_. Is that okay to say?"

"Anything's okay to say, I'd just rather hear the truth during our brief encounters," Francis said wisely. "It's best not to waste any time while we're together."

"…Right."

Francis sat down in his simple wooden chair, and crossed his legs. "Do you remember how I wanted to show you something last time?"

Lovino hesitated as he brought up the memory. "Yeah," he admitted reluctantly.

"Well, I still do. Rest assured."

"Do you think I actually car—"

"But I thought before I show you, I might tell a story first," Francis stated, and he patted the top of the other simple chair next to him.

Lovino tossed a glance over his shoulder, eyeing his escape route, then reluctantly sat down in the chair. He made sure his expression was set in that of extreme annoyance and discomfort.

But Francis didn't seem to mind or see, and instead proceeded to wave his hand dramatically and begin his story. "So once upon a time—"

"Jesus."

" _Once upon a time,_  there was a beautiful and struggling artist, who lived in Paris. He'd always been talented, and lucky, and happy, and although he didn't sell more than two paintings a day, he was content with his life."

Lovino opened his mouth to make a smug comment, but he caught the twinkle in Francis's eyes and decided not yet.

"Then one day, a young lady stopped by his stand," he said, and his tone changed somehow. "She wasn't like his other customers. She was kinder, and softer, and he wasn't able to use the same tricks he had on other girls. They talked, and she returned. And somehow…along the way, he became kinder and softer too. He never realized how bad of a person he was, until she showed how to become a good one."

Lovino narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Are you saying that I'm a bad per—"

"Shh," Francis shushed him, and swiftly continued his story. "And then, as the story goes, the two of them ended up falling in love. Like a true Parisian love story, if I may say so." He turned to Lovino smiling and heavenly.

The happiness was making Lovino's stomach turn.

"But," Francis began again, and he laughed rather breathily. "The real world has a loathing for happy endings. And it's always the good people who find out first." He reached down on the ground and fished out a small print. He held it gingerly between his fingers. "She got sick. She got very, very sick. Everything happened so fast, and then all of a sudden…she was gone."

Lovino's acute paralysis attacked his limbs, and he suddenly didn't know at all what to do. He never talked about death. It was left unsaid. It was taboo. Never to be spoken.

And likewise, he never expected to hear it. He never wanted to hear it.

Because it fucking scared him how  _death_  was  _everywhere_. If that was a painting of the woman, he didn't want to see it because she was  _dead_. Gone. Not alive. And probably so fucking beautiful and kind too.

Lovino didn't know whether Francis sensed his onset fear or not, but he did continue talking.

"Returning to the life he had before he ever met her was impossible, because he wasn't that person anymore, and that wasn't his life anymore. But his new life wasn't his life anymore either—he was stripped and bare and thrown into a different place in a different time."

_Someone burned the flowers._

"And he thought he could go through the motions, and somehow, he would return to how he used to be. As thought that were even possible."

_Someone threw black ink across the sky._

"He went on like that for a while: not really living, not really breathing, but just moving along. And then one day, he met a young man as fresh as a breeze, and as soft as flowers," Francis stopped and he was looking straight at Lovino. "Your brother was a lot like Jeanne. He was very kind to me, and we talked quite often."

Lovino's skin was cold. He didn't know how to react. "Um, you know he's—he's…"

"I know," Francis replied quietly, and those blue eyes swirled so dark. "I'm very sorry, Lovino."

Lovino's throat was closing, and he couldn't bear to see anymore. He closed his eyes and turned away.

Francis was leaning in his chair, it made a creak. "It's his birthday in two days, isn't it?"

Lovino gave the slightest nod.

"…And it's yours too, right?"

Lovino didn't make a move. He'd been pretending his birthday didn't exist anymore. He couldn't age another year than Feliciano. They were twins. How could that even work?

There was rustling of papers, and it sounded like Francis was sorting through his prints again. There was a sinking feeling in Lovino's heart.

"He commissioned a painting for you about a week before…" Francis trailed off knowingly. He held the paper in front of Lovino, waiting for him to grasp it. "I wasn't able to complete it until very recently though. I didn't know how to."

Lovino felt the print, the thin, fragile canvas pricking at his forearms, but he was afraid to look.

"He wanted you to have it," Francis encouraged gently.

A soft Italian voice whispered in his ear, and Lovino opened his eyes. He saw the ones just a shade lighter than his painted in watercolor and staring back at him. And he saw himself smiling, like he was happy.

"He said it was a photo of you two from your—"

"Last birthday," Lovino finished, his voice clipped. "I remember."

It was one of the good days that was being romanticized more and more, with each passing day. Lovino would never forget.

At some point, he realized he was on his feet, and he was walking.

There was a voice that called, "Wait! Where are you going?"

And another voice that sounded similar to his own that replied, "I need to go home. I'll be back later."

"Lovino!"

_There were no more roses, gardenias, tulips or daisies. Laughter evaporated into the air. The stall fell to pieces. There as nothing left in Campo de Fiori._

_There was nothing left at all._

_He_

_Was_

_All_

_Alone._

 

* * *

 

One day.

 

* * *

 

Antonio had an epiphany. It was something about the absence of a certain thing he'd grown accustomed to that helped him make the realization.

Lovino wasn't the one who guarded himself with smoke and mirrors. In fact, he didn't hide at all. Lovino sent out signals, hoping someone would notice and find him.

It was Antonio who was hiding. It was always him. He'd been tricking the light hoping no one would figure it out, but it was all for naught.

Because Lovino could see through any cloud of smoke. And he despised mirrors.

 

* * *

 

Antonio kept trying to convince himself that it was him that was embracing reality. That it was him that was moving on, and letting go, and not afraid of life. But that was because he never planned on living it. He didn't have fear, because he didn't need it.

Lovino was terrified every moment because he was trying. He was trying so hard, every step of the way. And he kept falling hard on his knees, scraping and bruising them, only to get back up and fall again.

And when Lovino handed a piece of his tender heart to Antonio with trembling, delicate hands, Antonio went ahead and kicked him to the ground.

 

* * *

 

He didn't deserve to love Lovino.

 

* * *

 

But Lovino was more than deserving of love.

 

* * *

 

So somehow, those seemed to cancel out. And Antonio allowed himself the privilege of sitting on the balcony all night long, playing a broken record of songs he used to know, hoping it was just loud enough to lull Lovino asleep, and soft enough to encourage pleasant dreams.

 

* * *

 

_There's people, you said, there's sentences_  
_And there's eloquence after death_  
_There's beauty in every consequence_  
_But if you don't notice it, it will wipe you clean_  
_Spread you like butter across the sheets_  
_Hand you down everything_  
_I'll hand you down everything_  
_Feeling like emptiness_  
_As it braces you for the aftermath of it_

 

* * *

 

Zero.

 

* * *

 

 _Of it_ _  
Of it_

 

* * *

 

Antonio woke up with his face stuck to the plastic cover of the dining room table: apparently he fell asleep that way too.

The light was still gentle and fresh, it must not have been noon yet. Something about the day seemed cooler than the ones past though. More like spring. Antonio felt his heart pang a little in appreciation; he was learning to love the sun again, and it made him miss Spain.

Soon he heard footsteps echo in the hall nearby, and someone approached. Gilbert walked in dressed far more prim than Antonio had ever seen him before, in a suit very dark and crisp. His face was set rather serious until he caught Antonio's eyes, then his usual, teasing grin spread across his lips.

"Oh, well if it isn't our sleeping beauty? Was the kitchen table to your liking?" he joked, and took a seat across from him.

Antonio laughed as he worked out the kink in his neck. "Not really," he replied, and gave Gilbert another once-over. "Why are you so dressed up though?"

Gilbert's smile faded and he cocked his head in restrained surprise. "You don't know?"

Antonio pursed his lips and did a mental check through his to-do list. "I don't think so, no," he said simply. But Gilbert's growing bewilderment was getting to him, so he added, "Why? What is it?"

Gilbert licked his lips, ready to respond, when they heard someone – it could only be Ludwig – unlocking the apartment door. He strolled in, his oxford shoes clacking against the floors, and walked into the kitchen also dressed to the nines in a black suit. He was even holding a bouquet of sunflowers.

"Hey, what's up?" Gilbert asked, his voice back to casual. "I thought you were picking up flowers with Lovino. Did he go back to his apartment?"

"He never met up with me," Ludwig muttered, his voice very exasperated. "I waited for a half an hour, and I called, and texted, and rang his buzzer. So I thought he might be sleeping and I'll just get the flowers on my own, but then he texted me later saying he doesn't feel well."

Antonio finally noticed the sheen of sweat on Ludwig's forehead, and the dark circles under his eyes. This was important.

Gilbert, always excellent at placating a situation, responded, "It's possible he doesn't actually feel well."

"Damn it, Gilbert! That's not true! We know it's a lie. He's just too afraid to come," Ludwig shouted, and his blue eyes were piercing.

Gilbert sighed and leaned over the table. "It's his birthday too, you know."

Antonio's ears pricked at that word. Did that mean it was also Feli's…

"What are you saying?" Ludwig demanded.

"I don't know. Maybe cut him some slack?" Gilbert snapped, and he whipped his head around, glaring at his brother. "I'm sure he's pretty damn upset right now."

"And he thinks that I'm not?!" Ludwig shouted, and his fingers scraped at his scalp. "I can't take this anymore! I don't know how to get through to him! It's impossible! He just wants to be alone all the time!"

"That's not true," Antonio interrupted desperately, raising his voice to be heard. "Lovino doesn't want to be alone—he just… _is_. I don't think he knows what else to do."

Gilbert stared at Antonio, and his expression relaxed in curiosity. Almost like wonder.

Ludwig, on the other hand, couldn't take it. He gripped his sunflowers tight and turned his back. "Well, I can't deal with this today. I need to get going."

Gilbert stood up. "Yeah, you can head over to my car. I'll be there in two minutes."

Ludwig marched out the door without another word. Gilbert was following, picking up random pieces scattered throughout the kitchen: his phone, wallet…

"Do you think Lovino's okay?" Antonio asked. He couldn't really help himself.

It didn't even take a second for Gilbert to reply. "Nope," he said. "I don't think he's okay at all."

Antonio's heart stuttered. "Well, what should we—"

"I can't do anything. Ludwig need me. I'm the only way Ludwig is going to make it through today intact," he declared, and his voice was very bold. He flashed his eyes to Antonio. "But you're right about what you said—Lovino doesn't have anyone."

Antonio waited. He wanted a cue. He wanted an order.

But Gilbert didn't give it to him, he just let his heavy gaze linger for a moment longer, and then he turned on his heel and left the apartment.

Two chipped pieces were separated by the space between the balconies.

But perhaps two chipped pieces together are better than two on their own.

 

* * *

 

Lovino really didn't feel well. It wasn't a lie.

The night before he smoked something close to twenty cigarettes in an hour, while at the same time sipping at glass after glass of wine. His stomach was churning, and his head was throbbing. And he spent so many tears and yells that he felt as though there was hardly anything left inside of him. He felt empty.

He'd been craving emptiness for so long: the absence of all of the horrible emotions he'd grown accustomed to feeling. And yet, emptiness was nothing like he wanted. It didn't feel like a release. It felt lonely.

The buzzer rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Lovino wondered if it was Ludwig again; he really never gave up. Why did Feliciano ever fall for a hardhead like him? He should be at Feliciano's grave anyway. Why the fuck was he wasting time?

There was only the smallest corner of Lovino's heart that allowed himself to be the tiniest bit pleased, because if he was here, that meant he cared. In some small way, he must care about Lovino. But…mostly, the reason Lovino dragged himself off of the floor to the speaker near the front door was for Feliciano's honor's sake. Someone worthwhile had to make it. And apparently it wasn't going to be a good-for-nothing like him.

Another buzz.

" _Pronto_ ," Lovino replied tiredly. His voice sounded ghostly.

It must have caught the visitor by surprise, because it took a while for them to say something. There was a breath, and then: "Lovino! You actually responded!"

Like a reflex, Lovino's hand immediately dropped from the buzzer. Like defibrillation, his heart suddenly started beating again. His eyes were wide open, and his breath was cut short. He didn't know what to do, or what this meant.

The buzzer went off again. This time more incessantly, and longer.

Lovino's finger shook in front of the button for a long while, but he pressed it. "…Yes?"

"Lovino, don't hang up!" Antonio exclaimed hurriedly, and his tongue tripped over the words dramatically.

Lovino's lips turned up hesitantly at the sound of panic, and he rolled his eyes. "Fine."

"Okay, okay good," Antonio coughed, like he was learning how to breathe again.

"What do you need?"

"Oh, I don't need anything," Antonio replied quickly. "But I did want to wish you happy birthday!" The last part was yelled loud and happy.

Lovino had to take a step back from the buzzer, but his finger stayed on the buzzer. His body betrayed him and laughed. "What are you talking about?"

"It's your birthday today, isn't it?" Antonio queried, like he already knew the answer. "I wanted to stop by and say hello."

Lovino's cheeks flushed and he looked at the ground nervously. "Oh…that's—"

"Also," Antonio interrupted excitedly. "I wanted to stop by so I could give you something."

"What?" Lovino asked dumbfounded. He didn't want anything. He didn't expect anything. He didn't even tell him of his birthday. "B-but I—"

"Uh, Lovino. Can you please let me in soon, because I think that's the landlord lady looking at me and I think she thinks I'm harassing you or something," Antonio chuckled anxiously. "Lovino, Lovino pleaaaseeee."

Lovino grumbled under his breath as his ears burned, and he clumsily unlocked the building door. Through the very, very thin walls, he could hear the close of the heavy doors down below, and soon, he heard the elevator go down. Lovino decided to leave his door open, assuming Antonio would find it, and retreat into the living room once again. He curled up on his spot on the carpet, leaning against the wall.

Time must have flown by while he zoned out at a particular spot in the carpet, because suddenly Antonio was in front of him, just the way Lovino's eyes had grown accustomed to him. The tan, shining skin, the curly mussed brown hair, the vibrant and lost green eyes, and the most tender and guarded smile he could imagine. He was holding his usual acoustic guitar, and in the other hand a bouquet of red roses.

"I know you owned a flower stand, so you're probably very picky," he began nervously, "and these are probably so cliché. And not even your favorites. But I thought they were pretty." Antonio smiled broader, and his eyes even seemed playful. "And you deserve something pretty on your birthday."

For the first time in a long time, all of Lovino's skin was on fire, and he realized that this was definitely a thing he did not miss about himself. He tried to curl up and hide the glowing red tint. He wasn't sure from which of the dozen emotions it was growing from either.

Antonio was then sitting down in front of him, holding the roses out for Lovino to grasp, and his expression sparkled in triumph when Lovino took hold. "So how old are you turning?" he asked excitedly.

Lovino hid his face in the flowers. "Twenty-six."

"Oh wow! Really?"

"Why are you so surprised?" Lovino asked kind of worriedly. He didn't know what that meant.

"I don't know. I think I thought you were…" Antonio stopped and glanced at Lovino up and down. "Actually, I don't know what I thought you were. I probably would've been surprised with any age actually."

Lovino scoffed and tucked his knees closer to his chest. "Whatever."

Antonio took his time to let his gaze wander around the room, taking it all in. Lovino knew he was being scrutinized, but Antonio still sounded very casual when he said, "So you've been celebrating here by yourself?"

He must have seen the empty wine bottles. Lovino didn't nod or shake his head. He buried himself in the flowers. How he'd missed the smell…

"Do you like them?" Antonio asked.

Lovino loved them. He  _adored_  them. He'd missed the smooth sensation of a stem, and the silky skin of a petal. His voice was so soft when he murmured, "They're my favorites."

Antonio's face brightened. "Red roses?"

Lovino hummed yes.

"Ah," Antonio grinned. "That suits you very well actually. I'm glad I went with my instinct."

"You were just lucky."

"Well, I'm quite the lucky guy actually."

"Not really."

"I am though. I attract all sorts of luck all the time."

Lovino raised a brow, and stared at him quite amused. "What an interesting thing to say," he mused.

"Haven't you realized how interesting I am by now?" Antonio teased.

Lovino smirked, but a pang in his heart sharpened his words. "I think I'm still deciding."

Antonio bowed his head, conceding defeat. "Fair enough." He raised his eyes, and they danced over Lovino mercilessly. "So what do you want to do for your birthday?"

Lovino's face fell, and he reluctantly, turned to the clock on the wall. It was almost seven now. "I don't really want to do anything."

"Ah, the pleasure in doing nothing. Isn't that an Italian saying?" Antonio said, his voice rather dreamy.

Lovino didn't reply. He was looking away, and his fingers were gripping the flowers tight. "I'm not going, Antonio," he declared quietly.

Antonio blinked at him.

"I'm not going today," Lovino repeated more firmly. "I can't."

Antonio's eyes softened, and he reached his hand to touch Lovino's shoulder, but then pulled back. "That's fine," he murmured.

Lovino turned to him.

"You don't have to go, you know. It's your birthday. You don't have to do anything."

Lovino panicked, and insisted. "But it's Feliciano's birthday too! I shouldn't be allowed to do this."

Antonio bit the bullet, and held Lovino's shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. "Feliciano would understand, you know. He knew. He loved you. And he wouldn't want you to come there trembling and crying," Antonio explained very passionately. "He'd want you to come of your own will. When you're ready."

Lovino openly stared at him, mouth quivering. "Do you think so?" he asked quietly.

"You knew Feliciano better than anyone else. I think you probably know so," Antonio said sagely.

_Probably so._

Tears Lovino didn't know he still had welled in his eyes, and the next minute he was crying. Again. Like not too long ago.

But this time, it felt…good.

Antonio was holding him. Lovino couldn't remember when the exchange happened, but suddenly, he was in Antonio's arms, being rocked in his lap, and surrounded by warm and strong arms. And he felt full. That tight fullness of having too much inside you and around you, but he decided that  _Yes. Fullness was better than emptiness._

And there was the scent and sense of fresh roses washing over him all the while.

 

* * *

 

"I don't want to talk about Feliciano tonight," Lovino declared.

They had moved onto the balcony—Lovino's balcony—and Antonio was tuning his guitar on the rickety seat while Lovino stay curled on the floor, smoking a cigarette.

Antonio peered over his strings, measuring Lovino's dark, pensive eyes, and the melancholic set to his lips.

"That's fine," he replied easily.

Lovino relaxed and dragged his cigarette long and slow. Like it was luxury for him.

"Let's play music instead," Antonio offered kindly, and he began strumming his usual anonymous chords. Lovino offered a smile of silent approval, and Antonio continued. He played those broken record songs he always played for Lovino's lullaby. But he played them closer, with no space between them anymore.

 

* * *

 

And the hours drifted by. Lovino's eyes melted more and more by the caress of Antonio's music. They turned that nostalgic molten brown Antonio longed to see again, and they were looking straight at him.

He wanted more of him. He wanted to hear more.

 

* * *

 

"Can you sing something for me?" Antonio asked gently, his fingers steady on the guitar. "It doesn't have to match the tune, or the tempo. Just—just say whatever you like. Any lyrics at all."

Lovino was curled against the iron railings of the balcony. He felt the cool metal lick his back through the shirt, but it hardly seemed to matter. Because somehow, the warmth of Antonio's smile – the one he always kept so secret and tucked away – it sparked a little fire in Lovino's heart (where there used to be wildfire).

Lovino's eyes traveled over his favorite planes of Antonio's face, then to the soulful green depths, and then to his hands. The most tender hands in the world.

"Antonio," Lovino began, and his lips were very careful. " _I know, you know_ _I know…your heart."_

Antonio's hands halted, and he loitered in the silence. The words sounded nostalgic, though he'd never, ever heard them.

Lovino's eyes flickered down, and he finished even quieter than before, _"You know, I've seen you know, my heart."_

Antonio didn't say anything to that—what was he supposed to say to that? He couldn't even manage to procure another tune, because music couldn't compare to the few simple words Lovino set free in the air. Because he was never smoke and mirrors. He was reality. He was the unapologetic truth of being imperfect.

And Antonio didn't look away.

He dropped his guitar to the floor, let it clang and spring, before lunging, and pulling Lovino forward: locking their lips, mingling their breaths, and grabbing locks of his soft, dark hair hair. All the while muttering the words he never wanted to say again:

" _Ti amo. Ti amo. Ti amo_ , Lovino Vargas."

And they tasted so much sweeter in Italian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Song quoted throughout is "Blind, Deaf Too" by Jonathan Keevil.
> 
> And my second-coming is here! *ahem* So for those of you who didn't keep up with my other story "Breathless," and didn't read my brief apology, I'll reiterate here how sorry I am for not being consistent with my stories. Without going into detail, I'll just say that I was too overwhelmed with life to keep up with any of my creative outlets.
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading. It means a lot if you stuck out the wait, and were patient for the completion of the story. You guys are the reason I came back to it at all.
> 
> Thanks again, and please review and let me know what you think of the story :)
> 
> (Update 08/29/16: I'm trying to get into tumblr, so I'm http://spinyfruit.tumblr.com if you want to hang~)


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